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Augustine; ur, The;; Mysterious Beggnr. 











AUGUSTINE; 

OR. 


THE MYSTERIOUS BEGGAR 


J 

FROM THE FRENCH OF ADRIEN LEMERCIER. 



New York ' 

D, (8: J. SADLIER & CO., 

31 BARCLAY STREET. 


^■ 2 -^ 



Kntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Corigress, at Washington, D. C, 


JOHN ROSS & COm STERROTVfERS AND PRlNtERS, 27 ROSE ST., N. V, 


CONTENTS 


> 4 - 


CHAPTER I. 

The Mysterious Beggar, . 

CHAPTER 11. 

Prophecy of Evil, 

CHAPTER III. 

The Prophecy Accomplished, 

CHAPTER IV. 


ImPENITENTj 


CHAPTER V. 


The Power of Friendship, 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Pebt of Gratitude, . 


CHAPTER VII. 


FAGB 

. 5 


• 13 


. 20 


. 31 


. 40 


. 56 


Death of a Martyr, 


70 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

Retrospection, 

VHL 

PAGE 

. 79 

CHAPTER 

The Sacrilege, 

IX. 

. . 88 

CHAPTER 

The Anguish of Death, 

X, 

• • 

• • Q'6 

CHAPTER 

Punishment of Crime, . 

XI. 

e . Ill 

CHAPTER 

Benefits of Religion, . 

XII. 

. . 125 

CHAPTER 

XHI. 


Return to the Faith, , 

• • 

. . 133 



AUGUSTINE; 

OR, 

THE MYSTERIOUS BEGGAR, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE MYSTERIOUS BEGGAR. 

OWARDS the close of the last 
century, a beggar established 
himself at one of the gates of 
an important city in Germany. 
He was commonly called Old Augustine. 
Seated at the foot of a linden-tree from one 
year's end to the other, his head always 
uncovered, in the greatest cold of winter 
as in the fiercest heat of summer, he begged 
his daily bread with a touching humility. 
He could not be classed with ordinary 



6 


Augustine ; on, 


beggars ; for his manner of asking alms was 
entirely different from that of other pool 
persons. He said nothing, much less seek- 
ing by importunate demands to exact 
charity from the public. He contented 
himself with holding out his old hat to the 
passers-by, and he waited patiently till some 
generous hand would place therein some 
offering. It was only when he felt himself 
pressed by want that he cast upwards an 
appealing glance. 

But what most distinguished him from 
others of his class was that, instead of be- 
ing joyful when the day’s receipts were good, 
he appeared graver than usual. The less he 
received, the more contempt which accom- 
panied the alms bestowed on him, the more 
contented and grateful he was towards those 
who thus manifested their disdain. 

When the alms were more than usually 
abundant, or were beyond his wants, he 
divided them amongst the other beggars, 
and kept for himself only what was strictly 
necessary to prevent his* dying of hunger. 

For ten years Augustine had come every 
day to his place beneath the linden-tree, 
and the common people no longer paid any 


The Mysterious Beggar. 


7 


attention to him. But men who felt for the 
misfortunes of others always stopped before 
him with interest, struck by the expression 
of his features and the sadness of his look. 

Augustine was not more than fifty years 
of age, but he appeared to be over sixty. 
His hair, white as snow, fell in long curls 
over his bent shoulders. On his broad, high 
forehead was a deep scar, which he care- 
fully concealed under his hair, but which 
the wind at times uncovered. His black 
eyes, most frequently moist with tears, told 
of sorrow ; all his features, his whole face, 
spoke of deep repentance, yet was full of 
hope. He had lost his right hand, and this, 
with the wound on his forehead, was suffi- 
cient evidence that he had been a soldier. 
He had no objection to declaring it himself, 
but no one could ever obtain from him any 
details of his past life. They only knew 
that he had come into the country about 
twelve years before, and that he had lived 
ever since on charitable alms. 

The dwelling which Augustine had chos- 
en was a miserable hut hardly fit to serve 
as a stable for animals. Situated about half 
a league in the suburbs of the city, and hid- 


8 


Augustine ; or, 


den by some shrubs, it escaped all observa- 
tion. His neighbors only had remarked that 
it was lit up every night ; but Augustine 
would never open his door to any one. 

The aversion which he evinced for all 
company led them to suppose that he 
hated men. Rarely, unless necessity obliged 
him, would he consent to answer those 
who sought to talk with him ; then his 
answers were polite but brief, especially 
when the questions asked were indiscreet. 
Very often he maintained an absolute 
silence, or begged those who sought to 
know his private life to desist, as he could 
not satisfy their curiosity. However, from 
his manner of speaking, and the expressions 
of which he made use, one could see that he 
had received an education superior to that 
of ordinary men, and that the rags which he 
wore covered something more than a com- 
mon beggar. 

No one, as we have already said, could 
discover how he passed his nights ; but in 
the daytime he was seen under the linden- 
tree, almost always occupied in reciting his 
rosary, or reading some pious book ; and 
no noise from the road could distract his 


The Mysterious Beggar. 


9 


attention, for his piety proceeded from his 
heart. 

Augustine was also distinguished by his 
fervent piety, and his profound veneration 
for the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar. 
The city at whose gate he begged for alms 
was for the most part Protestant, as were the 
prince and nearly all his court. There were 
no Catholics, with the exception of a few of 
the citizens, and the inhabitants of some 
of the neighboring villages. It was just at 
that unhappy time when a band of infidels 
were seeking to propagate the fatal errors 
of modern philosophy. 

The history of these later times teaches 
us with what success these men of unhappy 
celebrity spread around them their perni- 
cious doctrines, and ended by filling all 
Europe with blood and with mourning. 
This poison had crept into the town near 
whose gates Augustine asked for charity, 
and had infected not only a great number 
of Protestants, but many Catholics, who 
imbibed their impious and disorderly ideas. 
However, there still remained many hearts 
devoted to the Catholic faith in all its pu- 
rity, and the more these faithful souls were 


10 


Augustine ; or, 


oppressed, the more they attached them- 
selves to Jesus Christ and to his church. 
Amongst these was Augustine. 

Augustine was generally the first to ar- 
rive at the church to assist at Mass. He 
got behind a pillar, in order to be more 
recollected, and there, humbly prostrate, 
his eyes cast down, and his hands crossed 
on his breast, he prayed with the most edi- 
fying fervor. When the priest held up the 
Sacred Host, a holy trembling seized Au- 
gustine, his lips quivered, his face lighted 
up, and there escaped from his breast heavy 
sighs, as if from a man a prey to the most 
violent emotions. 

Augustine passed whole hours before the 
Blessed Sacrament when it was exposed to 
the adoration of the faithful, and very often 
the sexton was obliged to warn him that he 
was about to close the doors. He never 
quitted the church without regret, and, 
after leaving it, he turned towards it a lin- 
gering look, like a mother who separates 
from her darling child. 

He never failed to accompany the priest 
when he carried the Holy Viaticum to the 
dying. Barefoot, and with uncovered head, 


The Mysterious Beggar. 


II 


he followed the pious procession to the 
house which the Lord honored by his pre- 
sence, and, arrived at the door, he knelt and 
prayed whilst awaiting the reappearance of 
the priest. 

Every month he approached the Holy 
Table. How can we paint the fervor which 
animated his features, the joy which shone 
in his eyes, when the priest presented to 
him the body of our Lord ? As the thirsty 
stag longs for the fountain where he may 
quench his thirst, so Augustine longed for 
the happiness of possessing his God, and 
exposing to him his wants and his desires. 
Sweet tears then stole from his eyes ; his 
whole being seemed transported with ecs- 
tasy. 

This tender piety towards the Holy 
Eucharist attracted to him the attention 
and esteem of all the faithful, whilst Pro- 
testants and some perverted Catholics 
mocked him, and openly treated him as a 
fool. Furthermore, these latter gradually 
withdrew from him the alms which he had 
formerly received from them, and, but for 
the charity of the small number of worship- 
pers of Jesus Christ under the appearances 


12 


Augustine. 


of bread and wine, he would have been a 
prey to want. 

Happily, Augustine was as abstemious 
as is possible for man to be. In the morn- 
ing, he took but a glass of water ; at noon, 
a piece of bread sufficed for his repast, and 
often in the evening he eat nothing. Sev- 
eral persons offered him a shelter ; but he 
always refused, saying that he must and 
would remain a beggar. 




CHAPTER IL 


PROPHECY OF EVIL. 


NE evening, Augustine was seated 
as usual under the linden. The 
sun was just setting, and the 
shades of night began to shed 
around a refreshing coolness; it was just 
the time when Augustine usually returned 
to his miserable dwelling, or went to make 



a visit to the chapel in the cemetery, and 
pray for the dead. 

He was then on his way to visit that 
place of repose, when he met by the road 
three young officers taking a walk. Two 
of these officers were the sons of the prime 
minister to the prince, and the third had 
been their friend from childhood. Profit- 
ing by a truce which the government had 
just concluded with the French Republic, 
which had already extended its conquests 



14 


Augustine; or, 


into Germany, they had then repaired to 
the capital to rest after their fatigues. 

Ah ! ” cried one of them, who wore the 
uniform of a captain, here is Augustine, 
here is the saint. My friends, if you feel like 
laughing, I will make you acquainted with 
him, and force him to break his accustomed 
silence.’’ 

I know him already,” answered another 
officer, a lieutenant, with a noble though 
somewhat haughty face ; I never could 
endure him. There is really nothing in 
the world more disgusting than an old 
soldier who has become superstitious and 
bigoted.” 

Augustine, meanwhile, advanced towards 

them. He had taken no notice of the 
officers, and, with eyes cast down, and 
mind occupied with pious thoughts, he 
was slowly walking on when the captain, 
obstructing his way, thus addressed him : 

Where are you going in this direction ? 
A devotee like you should not be out of 
his house at this hour. You are not afraid, 

then, of the angel of darkness?” 

am going,” answered the beggar, with 
a calm, firm voice — I am going where 


The Mysterious Beggar. 15 

you and' I shall go one day, nevermore to 
come forth. I am going to the cemetery.'' 

^^Oh! oh!" cried the captain, with a 
mocking laugh ; if you intend establish- 
ing your winter quarters among the tombs, 
you must go alone. None of us feels tempt- 
ed to keep you company. Poor fool ! put 
aside these follies, and enjoy a little the 
rest of your life. A jovial song would be- 
come you better than sighs. An old sol- 
dier like you should rather seek to be gay 
than condemn himself to weeping and 
groaning, like another Jeremiah, over the 
blindness of those who have the sense to 
amuse themselves." 

You are at liberty, gentlemen, to amuse 
yourselves," replied Augustine ; but allow 
every one to follow his own inclination." 
And the beggar was about to continue his 
way. 

Halt there, if you please," said the cap- 
tain, in an imperious tone ; you must an- 
swer me. Is it true that you have served ? 
I can scarcely believe it." 

I do not believe it, either," added the 
third, who was an artillery officer. Who 
knows but you received that wound on 


i6 Augustine ; or, 

your forehead, and lost your hand, in some 
tavern dispute?’' 

Gentlemen,” answered the beggar, visi- 
bly affected, you may have fought brave- 
ly on many occasions ; but you are yet too 
young to have known war as I have done. 
I fought in the Old World and in the New ; 
on sea, and on land ; and, when you were 
yet children, I have often rushed on to the 
charge and to the attack. I have fought 
against enemies who gave no quarter, and 
who devoured their prisoners.” 

^Wou boast of it enough,” answered the 
lieutenant ; do you think we are childish 
enough to believe your vaunts?” 

‘‘Truly,” answered the captain, with a 
burst of laughter, “ I like to hear him talk 
of his prowess, it is amusing. I think I see 
him taken by these cannibals, and the blood 
freezes in my veins. But tell me, Augus- 
tine, is it from them you have learned your 
lessons of bigotry?” 

“ Do not blaspheme, I entreat you, gen- 
tlemen,” continued Augustine, raising his 
voice with noble pride ; “ rather humble 
yourselves before the Lord, whose patience 
is great, but whose justice is sure.” 


The Mysterious Beggar. 


17 


‘‘ Attention, gentlemen,'' returned the 
captain, now he is going to preach us a 
monk’s sermon. Well, my old man, begin. 
You will find in us indulgent auditors, and 
will perhaps end by converting us." 

I thank you," said the artilleryman ; 
it is rather too chilly to listen to a sermon 
in the open air. Let this fool visit his 
dead." 

Good-by, then, Augustine," said the 
captain. Present my compliments to your 
friends. Beg of them to prepare me a good 
lodging for when I shall be tired of life, but 
not before fifty years." 

You give me a useless commission," an- 
swered the beggar, in a voice hollow as 
though it came out of a tomb, and look- 
ing the impertinent scoffer in the face. 
‘‘Useless, indeed," added he, “for death 
hovers over your head, and your last dwell- 
ing-place in the cemetery is already prepar- 
ed. Soon will your remains be mingled 
with those who are now the food of worms. 
In four weeks you shall be there, not dead 
on the field of honor, but killed ingloriously, 
and by the hand of a friend." 

The moon was just rising ; her pale light 


1 8 Augustine; or, 

illumined the beggar’s features, giving him 
the aspect of an unhappy spirit. His look 
was so wild, and his upraised hand had in it 
something so imposing, that the captain 
could not repress a shudder. He wished 
to go, but his companions held him back. 

At the same moment, they perceived 
through the trees a faint light advancing 
towards them ; it was the priest carrying the 
Holy Viaticum to a dying person. Augus- 
tine’s eyes shone with a new light, and his 
gloomy features brightened. 

Hats off, gentlemen !” he said, in a tone 
of command. Our Lord is approaching.” 

The officers appeared completely discon- 
certed ; they regarded Augustine in speech- 
less astonishment. 

Hats off! ” repeated the beggar, in a 
louder voice. Prostrate yourselves ; behold 
the Son of God, the same who will one day 
summon you before his dread tribunal ! ” 
Overcome by an irresistible emotion, as 
if urged by a superior force, the officers re- 
moved their hats, and bowed their heads 
before the sacred chalice, without knowing 
what they did. Augustine fell upon his 
knees, and received the priest’s blessing. 


The Mysterious Beggar. 19 


May the holy Sacrament of the Altar be 
ever adored and praised ! ’’ said he with fer- 
vor. 

Amen ! answered the priest, passing 
on, followed by Augustine. 

The officers remained some time mute and 
motionless. 

O shame ! at length cried the captain, 
red with anger. This old fellow has played 
a pretty trick on us. But how were we 
such fools as to let him disconcert us so ? 
Patience ; I will make him pay dear for it.” 

The artilleryman forced himself to con- 
ceal his shame and uneasiness under a loud 
burst of laughter, which, although it was 
noisy, was none the more sincere. But 
Lieutenant Count Alfred remained silent ; 
his eyes, gloomy and downcast, showed 
that the beggar’s words had made a deep 
impression on him, and thrown terror and 
affright into his soul. 




CHAPTER III. 

THE PROPHECY ACCOMPLISHED. 

OUR weeks passed. Augustine 
was sitting in his hut reading, 
by the faint light of a little 
lamp, from a well-worn book. 

Some one knocked at the door. Augus- 
tine, deeply absorbed in meditation, did 
not hear. A louder knock, and a feeble but 
anxious voice, drew him from his reverie. 

Who comes to trouble me at this 
hour?” said he, approaching and cautiously 
opening the window, whilst the wind, 
which was blowing violently, threatened 
to leave him in darkness by extinguishing 
the lamp. 

“ For the love of heaven,” answered the 
same voice, which seemed yet more feeble, 

open, for I am losing blood, and will 
perish ! ” 

Augustine hastened to open the door, 





The Mysterious Beggar. 


21 


and a young man, pale, and covered with 
a cloak, rushed into the apartment as 
though pursued by enemies. The beggar 
looked him sternly in the face for some 
moments without uttering a word ; the 
young man regarded him with equal atten- 
tion, and, recognizing him, cried, in accents 
of the deepest emotion : 

Great God ! it is you. Old Augustine, 
prophet of evil ! Ah ! your prediction is 
but too truly accomplished. He is dead, 
not on the field of battle, by the hand of 
an enemy, but in obscurity, by the hand of 
a friend ! 

At these words, Augustine appeared to 
start from a profound reverie. ‘‘Yes,’' 
said he, “ I remember now that we met be- 
fore one evening, when you — ” 

“Hush! hush! I beseech you,” replied 
the officer, becoming paler and paler ; “ I 
am the most miserable of men ; I have 
killed my friend. O Charles ! it was then 
decreed above that I should be your mur- 
derer ! Woe, woe to me ! ” 

Sorrow prevented him from continuing. 
Augustine, seeing him on the point of 
falling, caught him in his arms, made him 


22 


Augustine ; or, 


sit down on a bench, and bathed his 
temples with vinegar and water. Then, too, 
he perceived the blood which was flowing 
beneath his cloak. 

^‘You are wounded, then?” said he 
gently. 

The young man replied only by an 
affirmative nod of the head. Augustine 
undressed him with the greatest care, and 
examined the wound. A ball had entered 
the shoulder. 

Should I not go for a surgeon ? ” asked 
the beggar; ^^your wound seems to be 
serious.” 

‘‘No, no,” quickly answered the officer; 
“ he will betray me. But, O my God ! 
where shall I find help ? Whom can I trust 
in my misfortune ? ” 

Augustine regarded him with an air of 
tender solicitude. 

“ To me,” answered he confidently. “ I 
offer you my services, unless a beggar's 
services might be disagreeable to you. Be 
discreet, as I shall be. Misfortune which 
addresses itself to misfortune is always 
sure of obtaining prompt assistance.” 

“Well,” answered the young man, “I 


The Mysterious Beggar. 


23 

confide entirely in you, and I beg of you 
to take charge of my cure. My friend 
Charles, the captain, who, the evening 
when we met, treated you in so insolent a 
manner, insulted me also. It was a very 
trifling thing, it is true ; but you know the 
prejudices of the world, and the rigorous 
exactions of military honor. Our quarrel 
became so serious that he sent me a chal- 
lenge ; I thought myself bound to accept it. 
He wounded me in the shoulder, and I, who 
had hoped that he would spare the friend 
of his childhood, his playmate, animated by 
revenge, resolved to grant him no quarter, 
I aimed at his breast, and my shot stretched 
him lifeless. Your prophecy, Augustine, 
was accomplished in a terrible manner ; woe 
to me ! woe to us all 

Augustine continued to regard the 
wounded man with deep pity. The recol- 
lection of that night, when he had an- 
nounced to the captain his approaching 
end, appeared to him like a shadow from 
the grave ; for he had spoken as if by inspi- 
ration, and he had long since forgotten the 
words which had so forcibly struck his 
hearers. 


24 


Augustine ; or, 


‘‘ My wound burns,” resumed the young 
officer, in a plaintive tone. ‘‘ Augustine, 
dress it, I beseech you.” 

The beggar staunched the blood which 
continued to flow profusely, and, taking a 
pair of pincers and a knife from a box, 

Have confidence in me,” said he ; let me 
extract the ball.” 

The wounded man looked at him in as- 
tonishment, and turned his shoulder to him. 

But,” asked he, are you capable of 
performing such an operation ?” 

‘‘ This operation,” answered Augustine, 
*Hs nothing new to an old soldier; I have 
extracted several balls before since I first 
went to war, and, thanks to God, I have 
always been so fortunate as to succeed.” 

Augustine then set to work, and drew out 
the ball with an address which showed a 
profound study of the art and long expe- 
rience — a thing all the more remarkable that 
he had but one hand. He then made the 
young man lie down on his bed of straw, 
which, although very poor, was yet very 
clean, and he sat beside him to nurse him. 

The sick man passed a bad night ; a vio- 
lent fever brought on delirium. His ravings 


The Mysterious Beggar. 25 

shov/ed the sorrow which filled his soul, and 
the fear for himself which his crime had in- 
spired. The captain whom he had killed 
was the eldest son of a powerful and favored 
minister of the prince. Edward — such was 
the young man's name — trembled lest re- 
venge should render still more severe the 
laws of the country against duelling. 

The wounded man's anguish revealed it- 
self now by low moans, now by sharp cries. 
Augustine's tender heart was wrung. 

Unhappy that we are," often repeated 
Edward in his delirium ; why did we not 
listen to the voice of heaven ? It warned us 
of the misfortune which threatened us ; it 
sent us a vision to announce it to us, and' 
we were deaf to its warnings. . . . Charles! 
Charles I forgive your murderer 1" ... 

Augustine could not restrain his tears. 

“Alas!" said he, “you have reason to 
weep, unhappy young man, who have ex- 
posed your life and your eternal salvatiom 
by destroying your friend's body and souk. 
To die impenitent, without returning to- 
God, without absolution, what a horrible 
death !" . . . 

Next morning, Edward experienced a 


:z6 


Augustine ; or, 


little relief, and he added the following de- 
tails to those which he had related the 
evening previous respecting his duel : 

When I was assured that my friend had 
ceased to live, I wished to cross the fron- 
. tiers, to put myself beyond the reach of 
pursuit ; but my wound, which my second 
had dressed carelessly, prevented me from 
guiding my horse. No longer obeying the 
one hand, which was all I could use, he fan 
away, threw me to the ground, and fled 
across the fields. I then saw a light which 
betokened a habitation ; although enfeebled 
by the loss of blood, and giddy with my 
fall, I advanced in this direction, and was 
so fortunate as to find you. . . . But 

what will become of me ? Charles is son 
of a man who is the most powerful at court, 
the favorite of the prince, and in eight days 
my leave expires. If I do not rejoin my 
regiment at the end of that time, they will 
condemn me as a deserter. If, on the con- 
trary, I state the accident which has befallen 
me, the news of my friend being killed in a 
duel will make them suspect the horrible 
truth, and I do not feel the strength to 
deny it.” 


The Mysterious Beggar. 27 


Augustine had not yet satisfied the de- 
sire which he felt to profit by the young 
officer’s emotion, and remind him of the 
great truths of religion. The occasion ap- 
peared favorable. Addressing his guest in 
a gentle tone, which, however, became warm 
and impressive, he said : 

You fear with good reason the prince’s 
anger, the revenge of his minister. Yet 
they are only weak mortals like yourself, 
and may destroy your body, but they can- 
not hurt your soul. How much more, then, 
should you dread the anger of him who com- 
mands kings, and who will one day demand 
from you an account of the blood you have 
shed? You despair of obtaining your par- 
don, and society, which you have outraged 
in one of its members, cannot grant it to 
you without violating the laws on which it 
is founded. God alone can be appeased, 
and you have not yet thought of humbling 
yourself before him! You have shed the 
blood of your friend, of your brother, and 
you forget that his soul, which your arm 
has sent before the throne of eternal jus- 
tice, will ask for vengeance on you. ‘ Who- 
ever,’ says the Scripture, ‘ shall shed human 


28 


Augustine ; or, 


blood shall see also his own shed, because 
man is made to the likeness of God/ You 
are the cause of your friend’s dying, per- 
haps, without returning from his fatal blind- 
ness, and being lost for all eternity, and you 
think only of your corporal welfare, of 
your flight. Oh ! turn aside, I implore you, 
turn aside from your errors. Turn towards 
God before the law gives you up to the jus- 
tice of men. Implore his pity, ask pardon 
of him, and perhaps you will obtain your 
bodily safety as well as that of your soul. 
Believe a man who has also suffered much 
in the ways of error, where he wandered 
long, but who to-day thanks heaven that he 
was recalled, from them. You are a Catho- 
lic, I know ; the church offers you pardon 
in the sacrament of penance. Instead of 
deploring your misfortune with tears as bit- 
ter as they are vain, go to a priest, who will 
pronounce over you the consoling words of 
reconciliation ; and when you have returned 
to the grace of God, you will appear with 
more confidence before the tribunal of men, 
unless that, as I hope, the Lord, touched 
by your repentance, may send you an un- 
looked-for assistance which will shelter you 


The Mysterious Beggar. 29 

from the pursuit of justice. You have deep- 
ly offended your God, who hates the mur- 
derer, whatever may have been the preju- 
dice by which you were incited to shed the 
blood of your fellow-creature ; but his mer- 
cy is as boundless as man's is limited. If 
you have destroyed your brother's soul, at 
least save your own by repentance and the 
sacraments. If your friend's fate is irre- 
vocably fixed for all eternity, God, in his 
mercy, has yet left you time to obtain his 
pardon. It is terrible to think that, by 
your crime, hell possesses perhaps another 
victim ; but this thought, far from discour- 
aging you, should excite you all the more 
to have recourse, with an humble and con- 
trite heart, to the mercy of him who can re- 
store your innocence." 

These words found but a feeble response 
in the young officer's soul. Completely oc- 
cupied with the danger which threatened 
him, he thought only of the means of avert- 
ing the pursuit which would be directed 
against him, and of the misfortune which 
had destroyed in an instant his most cher- 
ished hopes. Crazed at times by sorrow, 
he fancied himself sometimes before the 


30 


Augustine. 


judge ; and when his host endeavored to 
quiet him, he became silent, and remained 
for whole hours with his eyes fixed on va- 
cancy. 

Augustine renewed several times his 
pious and charitable attempts ; but Edward 
remained deaf to all his remonstrances, and 
the beggar was obliged to content himself 
with praying for him whom his words 
could not touch. He hardly ever left him, 
and if he still appeared, from time to time, 
at his accustomed place beneath the linden- 
tree, it was lest his absence should give rise 
to suspicions, and to avoid the indiscreet 
questions which he could not answer. 




CHAPTER IV, 

IMPENITENT. 

DWARD’S youth and strong con- 
stitution, together with Augus- 
tine’s anxious care, at length 
triumphed over sickness, which 
had so long kept the young officer confined 
to bed. Several times already he had 
begged his host to find out what was said 
of him in the city, and if he had been con- 
demned. 

I well know,” would he add, with a 
gloomy look, that I have failed in every 
duty. Our prince has a horror of duels ; 
he has never pardoned any one who has had 
the misfortune to kill his adversary. Now, 
above all, when they have none too many 
arms to repulse a victorious enemy, he will 
see with sorrow that the army has been de- 
prived of one of its best officers. My leave 
is expired ; my comrades, when they do not 





32 


Augustine ; or, 


see me return to my regiment, will think 
that I have concealed myself to escape the 
dangers of war, and have perhaps gone over 
to the enemy. Ah ! they will have me con- 
demned to death as a cowardly deserter.’' 

The unhappy young man cursed the day 
on which he was born, and, refusing all con- 
solation, he listened only to the voice of 
despair. Brought up like many of his com- 
patriots in the philosophical ideas which 
had brought so many evils on France, he 
was wanting in that Christian humility and 
resignation which relieve all human mis- 
eries, and give strength and courage to 
encounter the greatest trials. Augustine, 
convinced of the uselessness of his efforts 
to calm a mind so agitated as was Edward’s, 
consented at length to obtain the desired 
information. 

The young officer’s gloomy presentiments 
were but too truly realized. The prince’s 
anger at the news of the captain’s death, 
and the sorrow of the minister who had 
lost his most promising son, only added to 
the rigor of the sentence. Edward had 
been condemned as a duellist ; and, as he 
had failed to appear on the day when his 


The Mysterious Beggar. 33 

leave expired, the council of war declared 
him a deserter, and pronounced the sen- 
tence of death on him. 

Notwithstanding all the precautions 
which the beggar thought he had taken to 
announce these sad tidings to his young 
guest, Edward was none the less affected 
by them. He turned pale, and, though he 
only expected that such would be the con- 
sequences of his crime, he gave himself up 
to the most violent despair. He would 
rather die a thousand tirnes,'' he said, than 
endure such anguish any longer.’' Augus- 
tine strove by every means to calm him ; but 
time alone could ease his pain and restore 
his drooping courage. 

‘‘You are not lost,” said Augustine to 
him. “You can escape the danger which 
threatens you. You are here in a safe 
place, where no one can ever discover you. 
You should, however, count more on help 
from above. God is as merciful as he is 
powerful, and he has never rejected the 
prayer of an humble heart which has re- 
course to him with confidence. But he 
wishes us to implore him ; and before be- 
stowing his favors on us, he wishes us to 


34 


Augustine ; or, 


beg them of him. Of what service to you 
is your philosophy, with its dry doctrines, 
which serve at the best to amuse a frivolous 
mind, but which are powerless to heal a 
heart broken by misfortune ? Ah ! return to 
the consoling truths of religion; they alone 
can sustain your courage ; and even though 
society should condemn and cast you out 
of its pale, God will absolve you, and will 
receive you into his bosom.’' 

After a fortnight of sufferings and of 
mental torture, which is a thousand times 
more painful, Edward could at last leave 
his bed, and move a little round the narrow 
spot where he was obliged to Iccep himself 
hidden. Augustine, seeing him out of dan- 
ger, returned to his usual mode of life, and 
was seen every day at the linden-tree 
begging. 

Thus Edward was left alone. Soon wea- 
riness seized him, and he fell into mental 
debility, which, for a disposition so active 
and impetuous as was his, must have been 
more cruel than all the sufferings of disease. 
To employ his leisure, he paced the length 
and breadth of the room, whose slightest 
details he examined. The small extent of 


The Mysterious Beggar. 35 


the room, and the feeble light which came 
through one small window, covered besides 
by a curtain, made it appear to him like a 
prison. On whatever side he cast his eyes, 
he saw only poverty and misery. The walls 
were of oak ; but in many places they gave 
passage to the wind through large crevices. 

In one corner stood a small altar, on 
which were a crucifix and a skull ; to the 
right and left were two pictures painted by 
the hand of a master, and representing, one 
the Last Supper, and the other the Virgin 
with the infant Jesus. 

A little table, a broken chair, two dishes, 
and a pitcher formed the whole furniture. 
A straw bed was made up at one end of the 
room, and that served for Edward, Augus- 
tine sleeping on the bare ground. 

On the altar were some books ; they were 
the Bible and other works of piety. Some- 
times, to divert his weariness, Edward would 
take up one of these books, but with the 
greatest repugnance ; and scarcely had he 
read a few lines, than he would throw them 
aside with disdain. Augustine remarked 
one day the aversion which Edward showed 
for these pious books. 


$6 Augustine ; or, 

How I pity you,’’ said he, ^^who can- 
not understand the love which God de- 
serves ! According to you, God is a being 
so good that he regards with indifference 
the good and evil which men do, as though 
his justice was not equal to his mercy. 
But you misunderstand this goodness of 
which you dare to take advantage in order 
to give yourself up at your ease to the incli- 
nations of your heart. Ah ! my young friend, 
pray to the Lord that he may enlighten 
you with his divine light, and that he may 
give you that lively faith which alone can 
save you. Beg him to guide you to the 
path of truth, as he was pleased to guide 
me myself; for I, too, have had the misfor- 
tune of not having always lived in the love 
of God.” 

Whilst Augustine spoke thus, his cheeks 
became of a deep red, and his eyes shone 
with an unusual light. He had Edward’s 
hands in his, and he pressed them with emo- 
tion ; then he threw himself before the 
crucifix, and prayed for a long time. Burn- 
ing tears streamed from his eyes and 
bedewed his face. 

Edward regarded him with surprise and 


The Mysterious Beggar. 37 


with an emotion which he had never before 
felt ; recollections of his childhood crowded 
on his mind, and he mourned the happy 
moments of his youth, when he was as full 
of love as of faith. 

I was happier then than I am now,” 
thought he, looking at the beggar. Like 
Augustine, I believed then, and I loved. 
To-day my mind is vacant and my heart 
dried up. Poor mother ! ah ! if you knew 
how little I have profited by your lessons, 
and how cruelly I have been punished for 
having despised the teachings of faith !” 

Augustine had finished praying ; he arose, 
and, taking the sugar and lemons which he 
had just brought from the town, he pre- 
pared for Edward a refreshing drink, for 
which the young officer had been longing. 

‘‘ Drink,” said he to him ; that will 
strengthen you.” 

Edward took a long draught of it ; he 
then asked the beggar if he had learned any 
war news. 

The truce,” said Augustine, ‘‘ is ended. 
The French have passed the Rhine, and 
have twice defeated the Germans. They 
begin already to fear for the capital.” 


38 


Augustine; or, 


Great God ! cried Edward sorrow- 
fully ; O my country ! why can I not 
shed my blood for thee ? Ah ! how happy 
my comrades are ! It is permitted them to 
march against the enemy, and to fight for 
the honor of the nation, whilst I live here 
as a prisoner, as a deserter, under the hor- 
rible accusation of having betrayed my 
country/’ 

The Lord,” replied Augustine, makes 
you expiate here the only crime of which 
you have been guilty, and which appears to 
make less impression upon you than that of 
which you are suspected. Poor young man ! 
you remain ever deaf to the voice of heaven, 
which tries you 'with so much mercy? If 
you had fallen into the hands of* those 
whom duty would oblige to enforce the 
laws, you would have died — and died, per- 
haps, like the unhappy man whom you have 
yourself deprived of life, without returning 
to God, and consequently without hope of 
pardon. Now, on the contrary, that you 
have leisure to enter into yourself, and 
implore the mercy of him who will one day 
judge you, you allow yourself to be cast 
down by an unreasonable sorrow, and, 


The Mysterious Beggar. 39 


instead of giving yourself up to a salutary 
repentance, you listen only to the voice of 
despair. You regret that you cannot shed 
your blood for your country, and you have 
not a single tear to offer to God/' 




CHAPTER V. 

THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 

UGUSTINE'S prediction was 
soon accomplished. The French 
army penetrated to the capital. 
After compelling the prince and 
his court to fly, they established a garrison 
in the city, and the inhabitants underwent 
the fate of the vanquished. 

A division of German troops attempted 
to retake the city, but they were repulsed, 
and Count Alfred, the prime minister’s only 
remaining son since the death of his bro- 
ther, was taken prisoner. 

Some letters which were found on the 
count seemed to prove that this officer was 
connected with the enemies of the Repub- 
lic, and was even implicated in a plot which 
had just broken out in the heart of France, 
but which had been defeated. 

Nothing more was required to condemn 



The Mysterious Beggar. 41 

Alfred to a traitor’s punishment, and but 
for a severe wound which he had received in 
the last battle, the execution would have 
immediately followed the sentence. The 
despair and sorrow of the father at this 
fearful news may be imagined. He offered 
anything to save his son’s life ; he made use 
of tears and prayers ; but neither his efforts 
nor those of the prince could soften the 
heart of the French general into whose 
hands Alfred had fallen. 

The whole town, informed of the fate 
reserved for the young officer who had so 
generously exposed himself to save the city, 
testified the most lively sorrow ; all saw 
with terror the approach of the day fixed 
for the execution. Augustine shared in the 
general mourning ; but he thought he 
ought to conceal it from Edward, whom 
chance, however, made acquainted with all. 

Edward already felt himself strong 
enough to leave the dwelling of his host, 
and make short excursions in the suburbs. 
But as he dared not show himself in public, 
he only went out at night or in the evening. 
It was in one of these walks that he learned 
the fate of Alfred by a conversation which 


42 


Augustine ; or, 


he overheard while concealed behind some 
bushes. This news awakened in his soul all 
the sorrow which the death of Charles had 
caused him, and which Augustine had at 
last succeeded in calming. 

My God ! ” said he, in a heart-rending 
voice, his unhappy father will soon have no 
son, . . . and that through my fault ! 

. . . Ah! why must I survive Alfred's 

misfortune ? . . . May I not die for 

you, poor Alfred ? May I not restore you to 
your father? Perhaps he would pardon me 
for having deprived him of the first support 
of his old age 1 " . . . 

Augustine again attempted to console 
him, but his efforts were vain. Edward 
could not close an eye all night, and the 
beggar, who slept beside him for fear he 
should have need of help, heard him several 
times utter plaintive moans, and curse the 
fatal prejudice which had been the cause of 
his friend's death. Next day, Augustine 
prayed longer than usual, and with extraor- 
dinary fervor. When he had finished, he 
arose, and, turning to Edward, 

‘^Take courage," he said, with a serene 
face, and in a confident tone. Soon I 


The Mysterious Beggar. 43 


hope to bring you consoling news. I am go- 
ing to take an important step, but which, I 
venture to hope, will be blest by Heaven.'' 

Edward would have asked the beggar 
what he intended to do ; but Augustine did 
not give him time, and, taking his stick, he 
hastily directed his steps to the city, where 
he asked for the dwelling of the French 
general. 

Arrived at the door of the hotel, he wish- 
ed to enter; the sentinels repulsed him with 
disdain, and Augustine was obliged to wait. 
A moment after, a staff officer appeared. 

Captain," said he to him in French, 
have pity on a poor soldier who served 
for a long time in the French army, and be 
kind enough to announce me to your gene- 
ral. Tell him, I pray you, that I can give 
him news of his friend Felix." 

The captain regarded the beggar for some 
time in surprise, and, after promising to de- 
liver his message, he entered the hotel. 
Immediately after an orderly came out, who 
told Augustine to follow him, and intro- 
duced him into the parlor where the gene- 
ral was waiting. 

^‘Well," said the general, fixing a pene- 


44 


Augustine ; or, 


trating glance on the beggar, as though he 
feared treason, what have you to tell me 
of Felix 

Louis,'' answered the beggar, with a 
slight smile on his lips, is, then, that Felix, 
of whom you expect news, so changed 
that even his friend cannot recognize 
him?" 

Heavens !" cried the general, stupefied. 

Is it, then, you, Felix? Ah ! who would 
have recognized you ?" 

And drawing the beggar to him, he press- 
ed him to his heart with emotion. The at- 
tendants could not overcome their astonish- 
ment, In truth, it was a strange spectacle 
presented by the two friends, one in the 
prime of life and clothed in his brilliant uni- 
form, the other covered with rags, with pale 
face and white hair, and both holding each 
other in a close embrace. 

Felix! Felix!" continued the general, 
after making a sign to those who were in 
the parlor to withdraw, and casting a long 
look of astonishment and compassion on 
the garb of the beggar, what has befallen 
you ? I would not have known you. You 
are as yet but fifty years of age, and your 


The Mysterious Beggar. 45 

forehead is already furrowed with wrinkles, 
and your hair is white.’' 

Crime and repentance make one grow 
old early,” answered Augustine, and his 
features expressed a deep sorrow. 

But your garments ! Formerly million- 
aire, and now reduced to beggary. O Felix ! 
my dear friend, tell me how you were 
brought to such a miserable condition ? I 
entreat you, conceal nothing from me. Tell 
me all ; you will find in me a friend ready 
to relieve you.” 

What I have to tell you is very short,” 
replied Augustine, for so we will continue 
to call him ; I profaned the Holy of 
Holies, and I am doing penance in tears 
and poverty.” 

My dear Felix,” said the general, draw- 
ing him again to his bosom with deep emo- 
tion, come and repose on my heart ; con- 
fide to me your misfortunes. You know 
that formerly we shared our joys and our 
sorrows. I cannot see you weep alone.” 

O Louis!” answered Augustine, shaking 
his head sorrowfully, leave me my sorrow 
and my secret. One alone knows it : he 
whom Heaven has given me to be my guide 


46 


Augustine ; or, 


and support. My crime was great, but I 
trust that the God of mercy, touched by 
my tears, has confirmed the words of par- 
don and of salvation which his ministei 
has pronounced over me ! '' 

The general could not look enough on 
the beggar's features, and tears came into 
his eyes. Then, giving him a seat. 

Sit down, my friend," said he ; you are 
too much agitated. Open your heart to me. 
What can I do for you ? You know that I 
have never refused you anything." 

I know that, Louis, and that is why I ad- 
dress myself to your heart ; not for me, for 
I have need of the mercy of Heaven alone. 
My demand will perhaps astonish you ; 
but your friendship for me can overcome all 
difficulties. The German Lieutenant Count 
Alfred, son of the prime minister, is in your 
hands, and is condemned to death. Grant 
me his life and liberty." 

O Felix ! what do you ask ! The thing 
is impossible. Ask anything else, your 
friend is ready to grant it ; but respect his 
duties and do not force him to betray them." 

“And yet, Louis, I can ask nothing else. 
Your duty obliges you to condemn the 


The Mysterious Beggar. 47 


criminal ; but, after his condemnation, you 
have also the power of pardoning him, and 
it is his pardon I solicit. Consider that he 
is the only son of a father who has commit- 
ted no other crime than the defence of his 
country, and who has just lost his eldest son 
by a tragical death.'’ 

It is true, Felix, but remember thjs 
young man’s crime. According to our laws, 
he must be condemned to death ; he could 
not even enjoy the privileges of a prisoner 
of war. His prince has already offered me 
several French prisoners in exchange ; I 
was obliged to refuse them, for an example 
must be made which will terrify the enemies 
of our Government, as well those who 
conspire in the interior of France, as those 
abroad who are in communication with 
them.” 

“ Since our Lord has granted me grace to 
renounce all my worldly hopes, and devote 
myself to penance, I have also ceased to 
occupy myself with any of the revolutions 
which have arisen since that time, and I 
have contented myself with praying for the 
success of the cause of religion. Listening 
only to the voice of charity, which ordains 


48 


Augustine ; or, 


that we do good to our fellow-creatures, I 
come to entreat you to have pity on this 
unhappy young man, and to restore him to 
his father.’' 

Indeed, I cannot, my friend. That is 
beyond my power ; friendship must yield 
to justice. I have refused all the offers of 
the prince and his minister ; it is impossible 
for me to withdraw my refusal.” 

Louis,” continued Augustine, with a 
look full of sorrow and tender reproach, 
‘‘am I not, then, dearer to you than the 
prince and his minister? There was a 
time when you would have given your life 
for me, and to-day you refuse me the life 
of a man who is a stranger ! I again re- 
peat that I ask nothing which is contrary 
to your duty : I ask only the pardon of a 
criminal, without therefore wishing to judge 
of the sentence which was passed on him ; 
for I have renounced politics, and I have 
made a vow to occupy myself no more with 
the things of the world.” 

Louis dared not raise his eyes, so much 
did he fear to meet the beseeching glance 
of his friend ; but, by his silence, Augus- 
tine knew the fruitlessness of his entreaties. 


The Mysterious Beggar. 49 

Nevertheless, he did not lose courage; and 
pushing back the hair which covered his 
forehead, said : 

Do you remember, Louis, when w^e 
were together on the banks of Lake Erie ? 
Do you remember this wound ? It was 
given me by the tomahawk of an Indian 
whose companion I had slain when he had 
thrown you down. Do you see this arm, 
Louis ? It wants a hand, which I lost in 
defending your life. Do you remember 
the oath which you then took?” 

These words struck the general. Arising 
quickly, and embracing his friend with 
deep emotion, he said : 

O Felix! how can you think I have 
forgotten it? No! no! I would be the 
vilest of men if I could forget your devot- 
edness. I grant you this young man’s 
life, since I neither should nor could refuse 
you anything ; but tell him that it is to you 
alone that he owes his life.” 

‘‘ He shall know it ; for on his life de- 
pends that of another who is very dear to 
me, and whom he alone can save in his 
turn. His brother has just been killed in a 
duel. His murderer is also condemned to 


50 


Augustine ; or, 


death, and I wish to obtain his pardon. 
The count cannot refuse me when I entreat 
him to solicit for this other unhappy young 
man a favor which I have been so happy as 
to obtain for himself ; and his father will 
be obliged to pardon him.” 

Louis understood his friend's generous 
intention ; he begged him once more to 
reveal the mystery which enveloped his 
singular existence ; but Augustine persisted 
in his refusal. 

My sorrow,” said he, must remain a 
secret ; besides, the world would not un- 
derstand it. It dates from the period when 
I bade you farewell in leaving America.” 

Tell me, at least, where I can find 
you.” 

Under the linden-tree outside the 
Ncw-Gate. It is there I beg.” 

The general turned aside to hide his 
tears. 

Are you in need of money?” con- 
tinued he, in a voice trembling with emo- 
tion. 

No ; you have given me all that I 
could desire, and I ask no more than a 
place in your memory and your friendship.” 


The Mysterious Beggar. 51 

No one is so well entitled to these as 
you. It is to your devotedness that I have 
several times owed my safety.’' 

I have saved the life of your body ; 
but can I also secure that of your soul ? 
But I will pray for you, so that the God of 
goodness may enlighten you with his light, 
and guard you from the fatal errors which 
have disordered all minds, and plunged our 
beautiful country into this abyss of evil, 
from which Providence alone can withdraw 
it.” 

The general then placed himself at his 
desk, and began to write ; when he had 
finished, he rang. An adjutant entered. 

^^Go to Count Alfred,” said he to him; 
‘^announce to him that I accept the ex- 
change proposed by his prince. When they 
send me the three French officers who were 
taken in the last affair, and of whom they 
spoke, he will be immediately released. 
Here is his passport ; but tell him also that 
he owes his life and liberty to the beggar 
Augustine.” 

The adjutant was overcome with sur- 
prise at the sight of this poor ragged man, 
who had more influence over the mind of 


52 


Augustine ; or, 


the general than the German prince and 
the most powerful persons of his court. 

Felix,'’ resumed the general, ‘^you will 
come back to see me again. I demand 
that of your friendship." 

The adjutant, after having taken the pa- 
per which the general presented to him, 
went out with Augustine to repair to the 
prison where Count Alfred was expecting 
only death. 

The count \vas surprised to see the adju- 
tant accompanying Augustine. He remem- 
bered the evening when his brother, his 
friend, and himself had met the beggar on 
the way to the cemetery, and this recollec- 
tion troubled him. But he recovered 
himself almost immediately, and, fixing his 
eyes on Augustine, 

I see," said he, that all is over with 
me. Here is the prophet of misfortune 
who predicted my brother s death, and who 
is probably coming to announce mine." 

You are mistaken, sir," replied the ad- 
jutant, with a mysterious air. “No; it is 
not death: it is liberty and life which I 
bring you. Here is the proof that the 
general has pardoned you. You are going 


The Mysterious Beggar. 53 

to be restored to your prince, in exchange 
for three French officers lately taken.'’ 

0 my father ! ” cried the prisoner, trans- 
ported with joy. I shall see you again, 
and you shall not have lost both your chil- 
dren. But to whom do I owe this hap- 
piness, for which I no longer dared to 
hope?” 

To this old man,” replied the adjutant, 
pointing to Augustine ; and the general 
expressly commanded me to tell you so.” 

The count was stupefied. He thought 
he was dreaming, and, without uttering a 
word, he regarded alternately the beggar and 
the adjutant. 

1 share your surprise,” continued the 
orderly ; “ but such is the fact. It is to 
this man that you owe your life.” 

‘‘Yes; it is the truth,” added Augustine 
gently. “You see that a beggar maybe 
sometimes useful, even to those who de- 
spise him.” 

“ How ! ” cried the count, reddening. “ Is 
it you, then. Old Augustine, that I must 
thank — you whom we treated so shame- 
fully the evening when we met you going 
to the cemetery ? Oh ! you have been 


54 


Augustine ; or, 


avenged in a terrible manner ! Your pro- 
phecy is accomplished. Charles is there 
laid in the earth, killed by the hand of a 
friend. Ah ! forgive him, forgive both of 
us!” 

I have already forgotten all. May 
your brother have had time to implore 
pardon of the Lord before appearing at 
his tribunal! Humble yourself beneath 
his hand, and beseech him to banish from 
you that evil spirit which has already 
caused the loss of so many unfortunates. 
You see the terrible consequences of that 
fatal prejudice on a point of honor which 
urges a man to kill even his friend, often 
from a trifling motive, and thus to throw 
whole families into mourning and de- 
spair.” 

Alfred regarded him for some time in 
silence. The beggar’s words seemed to 
have forcibly struck his mind. After a 
pause, he again addressed Augustine. 

Augustine,” said he, how can I show 
my gratitude to you ? I know how great 
the benefit which I owe to your generous 
mediation, and I fear that I cannot reward 
you in a worthy manner.” 


The Mysterious Beggar. 55 

‘‘ Rest easy,” replied the beggar ; I will 
myself ask the reward which I desire ; but 
prepare for a demand which will probably 
appear to you extravagant. In the first 
place, I pray you to tell no one but your 
father that it was I who saved your 
life.” 

Augustine then returned to the general, 
with whom he conversed for a long time. 
They separated with tears in their eyes, as 
though they had seen each other for the 
last time. Louis, after having conducted 
his friend as far as the door of the hotel, 
followed him for a long time with his 
eyes. 

What sorrow ! ” said he to himself, with 
a deep sigh. What a severe penance ! 
Ah ! the crime of which he accuses himself 
without divulging it must be very great 
to make him resolve to expiate it in a 
manner so hard and so humiliating. The 
religious sentiments which animate him to- 
day must be very strong to have thus sub- 
dued a soul hitherto indomitable.” 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE DEBT OF GRATITUDE. 

OWEVER, the appearance of 
affairs soon changed. The 
French were defeated in their 
turn, and the Germans retook 
:he capital. The prince and the court re- 
turned there, and Edward, who had not 
ventured to rejoice at the victory of ene- 
mies whose presence subjected him to the 
pursuit of justice, began to fear them more 
deeply than ever. To escape the anger of the 
prince, and the vengeance with which he 
was threatened from the resentment of a 
father justly irritated, he wished to seek 
safety in flight. He knew well that he 
could not remain much longer in his retreat 
without being discovered. 

He was already sufficiently recovered 
to hope that he might take service 
again, and he resolved to enlist in the 




The Mysterious Beggar. 57 


army of a neighboring state, where he 
might equally defend the cause of Ger- 
many. But Augustine, to whom he dis- 
closed this design, shook his head, and 
answered : 

^^To you it seems easy to leave your 
country ; but do you know how difficult it 
is to find another? Rather beg the God of 
mercy to undertake your defence. Be 
converted to him in the sincerity of your 
heart, and he will come to your assistance. 
Wait a few days ; perhaps the prince may 
relent, and his minister’s anger become ap- 
peased.” 

Alas ! ” answered Edward, I cannot 
give myself up to so sweet a hope. I have 
no reason to hope that my enemy will de- 
sist from all pursuit, and pardon me. I do 
not doubt that my friends have made the 
greatest efforts to obtain this pardon, of 
which I feel myself unworthy ; but, since I 
am condemned to death, I do not wish to 
die a shameful death. I wish to fly, seek 
another country, and shed my blood on a 
field of battle rather than on the scaffold.” 

Well, I will not let you go,” replied Au- 
gustine. ^Wou must promise me to post- 


58 


Augustine ; or, 


pone the execution of your projects for 
some days longer. If you have no motive 
to hope for your pardon, I have one, which 
you will know later. Trust me, you will 
thank me one day for not having de- 
spaired.” 

Edward could not understand the confi- 
dence which he saw in the beggar’s words 
and looks ; but, as he had then become ac- 
customed to consider him as a being en- 
lightened by divine light, he submitted, and 
promised to wait for some time longer. 

The next day, the beggar presented him- 
self at the residence of the minister, and 
asked to speak with Count Alfred, who was 
still suffering from his wounds. The young 
count received him with a pleasure as live- 
ly as it was sincere, and made him sit be- 
side him. 

I come,” said Augustine, smiling, to 
ask the reward of the service which I render- 
ed you. You know that you are my debtor, 
and I am a somewhat exacting creditor, 
anxious to be satisfied.” 

Ask, my dear Augustine — ask all that 
you wish,” answered the count. The life 
which you have restored me would be 


The Mysterious Beggar. 59 

hardly sufficient to testify all the gratitude 
which I owe you.'’ 

'‘You alone cannot pay your debt,” con- 
tinued Augustine, with a mysterious smile. 
" Your father must aid you by every means 
in his power. Conduct me to him ; I will 
tell him what I desire, and, in case of need, 
you will support me with your influence, 
for I have a great deal to ask of him.” 

Alfred regarded the beggar with surprise, 
and could not guess what he desired. 
However, he did not wish to force Augus- 
tine, by his entreaties, to reveal his secret, 
and he conducted him to his father’s apart- 
ment. 

The minister was then surrounded by pub- 
lic officials, and by a great number of per- 
sons attached to his service. When the 
beggar appeared, all turned to look at him, 
and all conversation ceased immediately. 

" Father,” said Alfred, advancing to- 
wards the minister, and holding Augustine 
by the hand, " I here present to you my 
preserver — he to whom we owe — I, life ; you, 
the preservation of your last son. You 
know him ?” 

The minister regarded for some time 


6o 


Augustine ; or, 


with a scrutinizing glance, the beggar who 
was standing before him, his head humbly 
bowed. 

'' I know him, without doubt,'’ said he ; 

I have passed him by thousands and 
thousands of times -and never could I have 
imagined that he would one day become 
the preserver of my son, and have such a 
right to my gratitude. 

Approach, Augustine, and tell me how 
you were able to touch the heart of the 
French general, who was insensible to my 
prayers and tears. How did you obtain 
from his inflexible severity that which the 
most urgent entreaties and generous offers 
of our prince could not obtain?” 

Nothing is impossible to friendship and 
gratitude,” answered the beggar. 

What you now say,” said Alfred’s fa- 
ther, is an enigma to me. I ask a clearer 
response, a more precise explanation.” 

Pardon, my lord, but I venture to pray 
you to leave me my secret. Let it suffice 
that you enjoy the happiness of having re- 
covered your son.” 

The minister would not insist ; but his 
gaze seemed as if seeking to penetrate the 


The Mysterious Beggar. 6i 


depths of this extraordinary man's soul, who 
stood before him in the same posture in 
which he had so often remarked him under 
the linden-tree. 

‘‘ When I learned," continued the minis- 
ter, after a short pause, that it was you to 
whom I owed the life of my son, the only one 
that Providence has left me, I caused the 
most minute enquiries to be made concern- 
ing you, and I could only learn that you were 
a stranger living on the alms of the pass- 
ers-by, and that you were weak-minded 
and superstitious." 

Augustine made no answer, but his look 
revealed the painful impression which the 
minister's last words had made upon him. 

A great number of persons," continued 
the minister, regarded you as a spy in the 
enemy's service ; I cannot believe it. What 
you have done for my son is a proof to the 
contrary. But there is one point on which 
every one agrees, and of which I am myself 
persuaded ; that is, that you are not an ordi- 
nary beggar, and that you are something 
more than a beggar." 

Ah ! " quickly answered Augustine, 
‘‘they deceive themselves in judging me 


62 


Augustine ; or, 


thus. I am no more than a beggar, and less 
than a beggar, for — 

Augustine stopped short, and the minis- 
ter, after waiting some time that he might 
finish his sentence, spoke again. 

'' Listen, my friend, I must not let the 
preserver of my son continue to beg his 
bread. I am rich ; ask what you will, I can 
refuse you nothing. I wish to provide for 
all your wants, and secure to you an hon- 
orable and independent existence. Believe 
me, this debt of gratitude it will be sweet 
for me to pay.” 

I would accept your offers with respect- 
ful eagerness,” replied Augustine, '' if the 
goods of this world were more suitable for 
me than the poverty in which I am.” 

But you expect a reward,” said Count 
Alfred. What do you wdsh, then? What 
do you ask ? Speak frankly.” 

I am going to tell you,” answered Au- 
gustine, in a solemn tone. I have just saved 
your life ; now I ask you to save that of an 
unhappy man whom the law has con- 
demned, but whom it can pardon.” 

And who is the criminal ? ” said the 
minister, with a quick gesture of surprise. 


The Mysterious Beggar. 63 

The murderer of your son.’' 

Heaven ! what do you ask? The murder- 
er of Charles ? Ah ! no, never ! his sentence 
is passed — the prince has confirmed it.” 

You will implore for him, my lord, the 
prince’s clemency. He cannot refuse a 
father who comes to ask pardon for the 
murderer of his son. Doubtless it must ap- 
pear painful to you to pardon the criminal ; 
but mercy becomes the great above all, and 
the only revenge worthy of a Christian is to 
pardon.” 

The minister, stupefied, made no answer. 
He paced the room with rapid strides, and 
evinced the most lively agitation ; at length 
his son stopped him, and conversed with 
him for a moment in a low voice. 

Tell me, Augustine,” then said the min- 
ister, whence comes the interest which you 
manifest in Lieutenant Edward ? ” 

‘‘ He is unhappy, and I am a Christian. 
How could I help interesting myself in 
him ? Have you yourself, my lord, never 
felt pity for misfortune ? Has your heart 
never been opened to those gentle feelings 
which the sight of a fellow-creature’s suffer- 
ings excites in us? Oh! no; I know it. 


64 


Augustine ; or, 


You, too, have been touched by the tears of 
misery and the murmurs of the unhappy. 
Ah ! be always compassionate, always gen- 
erous ! Remember that he for whom I come 
to implore your pity has many times already 
shed his blood in defence of his country, 
and that all his ambition to-day is to shed 
what remains to him in so noble a cause. 
Pardon him ! Spare his life, I conjure you, 
by that son whom I have preserved to 
you.” 

The minister appeared moved ; a tear glis- 
tened in his eye, and, in a trembling voice, 
he asked the beggar if he knew Edward’s 
retreat. 

Yes, I know it,” answered Augustine, in 
a firm, calm tone. 

Where is he hidden ? ” 

My lord ! I depend on your generosity. 
He is at my house. It was I that dressed 
his wound, who took care of him, and per- 
haps saved his life. 

What noble sentiments ! ” cried Alfred, 
^‘Ah ! father, you cannot appreciate them as 
we can. You are not perhaps aware that 
this same Augustine had been, only a few 
months before, the object of our insulting 


The Mysterious Beggar. 65 


raillery ; that we wounded him in the most 
cruel manner. And yet he has solicited 
and obtained for me the life I was con- 
demned to lose, and he comes to-day to ask 
that of my companion in an unworthy pas- 
time.’’ 

The minister turned to the beggar. 

I thank you, Augustine,” said he, in ac- 
cents of deep emotion — I thank you for 
what you have done for my son and myself. 
I acknowledge that beneath the rags which 
cover you beats a heart so noble and so 
generous that it would be hard to find its 
equal amongst the highest classes. I cannot 
help thinking that you do not belong to the 
ordinary class of beggars. Your life is a 
most mysterious one ; but I will respect 
your secret. Return to Edward, and tell 
him I have pardoned him. He shall know 
hereafter if my request has been granted by 
the prince, as I hope it will ; but be assured 
I shall leave nothing undone to obtain his 
pardon.” 

The minister could say no more ; over- 
come by the inward struggle which he had 
sustained, he made a sign to the beggar 
that he might retire. Augustine respect- 


66 


Augustine ; or, 


fully kissed his hand, and with his eyes still 
moist with tears, but sparkling with joy, he 
left the room. 

The minister’s intercession with the 
prince in favor of Edward had a result as 
prompt as it was satisfactory, and Augus- 
tine, whom the minister had caused to be 
summoned in order to communicate to him 
these happy tidings, hastened to convey 
them to Edward, but without telling him 
to whom he owed his pardon. 

The young officer could not at first be- 
lieve so much happiness was his, and it was 
not till he had learned the truth from some 
of his friends, to whom he had secretly 
made himself known, that he gave himself 
up to joy and hope. 

After six weeks’ arrest, which had been 
inflicted on him in punishment of his fault, 
he presented himself to the prince, in order 
to thank him. The prince profited by this 
opportunity to reprimand him severely for 
his thoughtlessness, and then sent him to 
the , minister, adding that it was to his 
generous intercession that he owed his life. 

The minister received him gravely, but 
without any appearance of resentment ; and 


The Mysterious Beggar. 67 

when Edward wished to thank him for his 
generosity : It is not to me/' said he, 
that you owe thanks, but to a man whom, 
perhaps, you were far from supposing had 
so much influence with me. This man is 
Augustine the beggar, and it is to his en- 
treaties that you owe your pardon." 

Can it be possible ? " cried Edward, 
starting back in astonishment. 

It must be possible, since it is really so," 
laughingly said Alfred, who had himself 
presented Edward to his father. But do 
you know to whom I also owe the pleasure 
of seeing you again ? " 

No," answered Edward. Augustine, 
indeed, told me that the French general had 
at length accepted the exchange of three 
officers whom the prince had offered to him 
to obtain your liberty, but until now I have 
always thought that, if our enemy relented, 
it was because of the advantage to be de- 
rived from the exchange." 

You are mistaken, my friend," said Al- 
fred. The general into whose hands I had 
fallen showed himself insensible to my 
father’s tears and entreaties, and to the 
merit of the officers who were offered in ex- 


68 


Augustine ; or, 


change. It was reserved for another to ob- 
tain my liberty. This person, more power- 
ful than my father or than any prince, is a 
mere beggar — it is Augustine.’' 

Edward was so amazed that he remained 
some time mute with surprise. When he 
had recovered his speech, he begged Alfred 
to relate how all this had come to pass. 

Alfred hastened to gratify him. After- 
wards they both repaired to Augustine’s 
house to express to him their gratitude. 

I have only done my duty,” answered 
the beggar, with gentleness and humility. 
“ I am but a poor sinner. For my reward, 
I only ask secrecy of you.” 

The two friends offered him a pension ; 
but he refused it. They proposed to have 
him admitted to an asylum, so that he 
might there pass the rest of his days in 
prayer and meditation, but he again re- 
fused. 

“Well!” continued Alfred, “if you will 
not accept anything for yourself, ask for 
others. We admit that it is impossible for 
us to show our gratitude in a manner 
worthy of the favors we have received from 
you ; but at least do not deny us the plea- 


The Mysterious Beggar. 69 

sure of acknowledging them as far as we 
are able.” 

Then Augustine relented, and asked some 
help for the orphan asylum and for the only 
Catholic church which there was in the city. 
They hastened to comply with his wishes, 
and the aid he obtained for these worthy 
objects even surpassed his hopes. 




CHAPTER VII. 


DEATH OF A MARTYR. 



lUGUSTINE had returned to his 
place under the linden at the 
New-Gate, but he did not re- 
main long there. The French 
army was again in the ascendant, and had 
regained entire possession of the city. 

One day, Augustine had repaired to a 
neighboring village, of which the French 
had just taken possession. He was alone 
in the church praying, when he saw enter a 
troop of men, with hideous faces and ragged 
garments, whom he recognized as belonging 
to the lowest classes of the capital. En- 
couraged by the hope of impunity, they had 
come with the intention of pillaging the 
treasures which the onemy had respected ; 
and they went up to the altar to force open 
the door of the tabernacle. A holy anger 
inflamed Augustine. He arose, and, follow- 




The Mysterious Beggar. 


71 


ing the profaners, he cried out to them in a 
voice of thunder: Stop, unhappy men! 
Fear the divine vengeance ! It •will not 
leave your crime unpunished/' 

The criminals were at first surprised ; 
but, seeing the beggar feeble and deprived 
of one hand, they burst out laughing, and 
continued their efforts to obtain the trea- 
sures which they coveted. Augustine could 
no longer contain himself ; he threw down 
to the foot of the altar the one who held 
the instrument for forcing the tabernacle, 
and with his own hand dragged him out of 
the church. All the others folloAved. 

Reaching the square in front of the 
church, they surrounded Augustine, and 
attacked him fiercely. The beggar did not 
feel his wounds. Animated with a strength 
which his adversaries were far from sus- 
pecting in a white-haired man, he repulsed 
his assailants, and compelled them to beat a 
retreat. 

But exhausted by the length of his 
unequal struggle,' and by the loss of blood 
which was flowing from a large w^ound in 
his head, Augustine fell on the steps of 
the church. His eyes shone with a brighter 


72 


Augustine ; or, 


light, and in a loud voice he said : O my 
God ! how happy I am to have been able 
to shed some drops of blood in defence of 
thine august Sacrament ! I thank thee for it, 
O my Saviour ! and I beseech thee to unite 
this humble sacrifice to that which thou 
didst offer for me on Calvary.” 

However, feeling his strength desert him, 
he wished to rise and call assistance. His 
voice failed him ; he fell back unconscious 
on the pavement. The church stood apart 
at the entrance of the village, surrounded by 
tall shrubs ; but an old woman who had 
come to pray for her son lately killed in 
battle, hearing Augustine’s last words, and 
being near him, tried to raise him. She had 
not strength to do so, and was obliged to 
call to her assistance several French horse- 
men who were passing at a little dis- 
tance. 

What was the surprise of the commander 
of the troop when he recognized the beggar 
as the person for whom he had a short time 
before obtained an audience of the general ! 
He immediately commanded two of his 
men to dismount and carry the wounded 
man to his dwelling, whilst he himself went 


The Mysterious Beggar. 73 

in all haste to seek one of the army sur- 
geons. 

The surgeon dressed the wound, and 
Augustine recovered consciousness. 

I feel,’' said he, that my wound is 
mortal, and that I have only a few hours 
more to live ; do me the favor, gentlemen, to 
apprise the priest of this village, and beg 
him to bring me the last consolations of the 
dying ; I would also like once again to see 
your general, to bid him farewell.” 

The captain answered that his wishes 
should be complied with, and he immedi- 
ately sent to find the priest, who hastened 
to come. 

The headquarters were held in a town at 
some distance, and it would be two hours 
before Augustine could receive the visit of 
his old comrade in arms. 

When the priest, before going to the 
beggar, went to take the chalice, he was 
terrified on seeing that an attempt had been 
made to force the tabernacle. His surprise 
was still more increased when, in going out 
by the door opposite, he saw the steps 
stained with blood. He immediately sus- 
pected what had occurred. On entering 


74 


Augustine ; or, 


the room where Augustine lay half-uncon- 
scious, he met the woman who had wit- 
nessed this tragic event, and she told him 
all that she had seen and heard. 

Augustine awoke from his stupor, and, 
seeing the priest : 

God be praised ! ” said he ; I shall not 
die alone and forsaken, as I feared a mo- 
ment since, and I shall receive the Sacra- 
ment of my Saviour’s love before appearing 
at the tribunal of his justice.” 

Be consoled, my brother,” answered 
the priest ; God has deigned to ac- 
cept the sacrifice of the blood which 
you have shed in defence of his holy 
mystery. I have learned all. I know that 
those impious men struck you, after hav- 
ing attempted to place a sacrilegious 
hand on the Holy of Holies. Behold 
your God, who comes to offer himself to 
you in reward of your generous devotion 
to his holy cause.” 

Although Augustine, since he had set- 
tled in the country, had always lived as a 
saint, he yet wished to profit by the little 
strength which w^as left him to make a 
general confession of his whole life, and the 


The Mysterious Beggar. 75 


minister of Jesus Christ thought that he 
should not oppose this pious desire, even 
whilst he had the conviction that this long 
review of the past was unnecessary. 

Augustine had finished his confession, 
when the general entered the apartment. 
He could not restrain his tears on seeing 
the sufferings and resignation of his friend. 

My poor Felix,” said he, in an agitated 
tone, in what a condition do I find you ! ” 

‘‘ Do not pity m.e, my friend,” answered 
Augustine ; “ rather thank with me the 
divine mercy for having given me the op- 
portunity of expiating by the shedding of 
my blood the crime which I have so long 
endeavored to efface by my tears. I feel 
that I am dying, and I see approach with 
confidence the end of a life but a small 
part of which I have consecrated to him to 
whom it wholly belongs. I trust in his in- 
finite mercy, and I await without fear the 
moment when I shall appear before him. 
But you, my friend — you who are every day 
exposed to perish on the battle-field, ah ! 
forget not that you will also appear before 
that severe Judge who is soon to call me 
before his dread tribunal. Have pity on 


76 


Augustine ; or, 


your soul, if you wish that the Lord may 
have pity on it. Return to your God in 
the sincerity of your heart, and tremble at 
the thought that the longer your life may 
be, more terrible also will be the account 
which you shall one day have to render. 
Pardon me, Louis, if I speak to you thus ; 
but I cannot help expressing to you my 
fears, and making you share my apprehen- 
sions. Ah ! I entreat you by the friendship 
whose sweet bonds once united us, and, 
still more, by the love which you owe to 
God, by the love of yourself, return to the 
path of truth ! You have been misled, as I 
was, by impious doctrines, and you are still 
guided by the unhappy opinions which 
have accumulated so many evils on our 
country. Ah ! that I might communicate to 
you the light with which the Lord has vouch- 
safed to favor me ! You could then un- 
derstand my heart ; this state of misery and 
humiliation to which I have condemned 
myself would appear but a very feeble 
expiation of the evil I have done.'’ 

The general made no answer; but his 
tears proved that the dying man had not 
spoken to an insensible heart. He took 


The Mysterious Beggar. 77 


the hand which his friend held out to him, 
and, making an effort to overcome his sorrow, 

“ Felix,” said he, pray for me, so that 
God may have mercy on my soul. I feel 
now, more than ever, how unhappy I am to 
have left, like many others, the way of jus- 
tice, and forgotten the lessons which I re- 
ceived in my childhood ; but, alas ! yielding 
to the general impulse, I have no longer 
strength to resist the torrent, and I expect 
my salvation only through the mercy of 
God.” 

I can imagine, Louis,” replied Augus- 
tine, the difficulties you meet at every 
step ; but the same God who has been 
pleased to sustain me by his grace will give 
you also the strength to surmount them, if 
you address yourself to him with that 
confidence which justifies his mercy.” 

These words were pronounced with so 
much warmth that they entirely exhausted 
the dying man's last strength. Augustine ask- 
ed to receive extreme unction. He received 
the two sacraments with a fervor which edi- 
fied not only the general, but also the cap- 
tain and the surgeon, who had just entered 
to assist at his last moments. Then were 


78 


Augustine. 


these proud republicans, as if drawn by an 
invisible power, seen to kneel at the foot of 
the death-bed, to answer the prayers which 
the priest recited, and mingle their tears 
with those shed by their commander, as if 
they, too, were about to lose a friend. 

When Augustine felt that he had but a 
moment more to live, with his failing hand 
he drew the general towards him, and said : 

Farewell, Louis, save your soul !” 

My God !” said he, almost immediately 
after, into thy hands I commend my 
spirit. Ever adored and praised be the 
most holy Sacrament of the Altar ! 

And he expired. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

RETROSPECTION. 

HE campaign had just ended, 
when two officers were seen ap- 
proaching the residence of the 
Catholic priest of the capital. 
They came to ask him to give them some 
information as to the antecedents of Augus- 
tine, that mysterio'us beggar whose tragical 
death had excited the attention of the 
whole city, and given rise to innumerable 
conjectures. In truth, since the striking 
proofs of interest and friendship which the 
French general had bestowed on him, it 
could no longer be doubted that this man 
had hidden under an assumed name one 
more distinguished. But amongst all the 
refugees whom the Revolution had cast on a 
foreign soil, no one could remember having 
seen any who, like Augustine, refused all 
the assistance which was offered them, and 



8o 


Augustine ; or, 


condemned themselves, like him, to a poor 
and miserable life. 

The priest, Augustine’s only confidant, 
at first made some objection about reveal- 
ing his secrets to the two officers ; but when 
he recognized in one Count Alfred, and in 
the other Lieutenant Edward, he thought 
he might break silence, and make them ac- 
quainted with the particulars of the past 
life of him who had saved the life of both. 
He gave them then a manuscript written 
in Augustine’s own hand. This document 
was in French, and on many of its pages 
might still be seen traces of the tears which 
the penitent had shed in writing them. It 
is from these papers that we have extracted 
the following details. May they interest 
and, above all, edify our young readers. 

Augustine, or rather Felix, since Felix 
is the real Christian name of this mysteri- 
ous man, had sprung from one of . the 
noblest families in France. He lost his 
parents at an early age, and was placed 
under the guardianship of one of his uncles, 
who neglected nothing to give him an 
education as solid as it was brilliant. 

Felix responded to his tutor’s care with 


The Mysterious Beggar. 8i 


a zeal proportioned to the happy disposi- 
tions of his heart and the fine qualities of 
his mind. 

He had scarcely attained his twenty- 
fourth year, when he was already versed in 
all the branches which compose the educa- 
tion of a young nobleman ; but, unhappily, 
he was ignorant of the science of sciences — 
that of religion. His uncle had entirely 
neglected this essential foundation of a 
good education, and the heart of the un- 
fortunate young man was soon exposed to 
all the seductions of an impious and cor- 
rupt age. His manly beauty, his affable 
and elegant manners, his wealth and con- 
nections, attracted to him the attention of 
men the most influential in society, and it 
was thus that he connected himself with 
the chiefs of modern philosophy, the Vol- 
taires, Diderots, and D’Alemberts, whose 
most zealous disciple he became. 

He lived thus for several years like a fallen 
angel. But the natural rectitude of his 
mind made him soon discover all the im- 
morality concealed beneath the pretended 
philosophy of the age, and he was soon 
obliged to confess to himself what a 


82 


Augustine ; or, 


dreary void these doctrines leave in the 
soul of him who endeavors to make them 
the rule of his conduct. He felt that they 
had taken all from him, and had given him 
nothing in exchange. 

An inexpressible uneasiness took posses- 
sion of his soul, and embittered the fairest 
days of his life. He cursed the perfidious 
friends who had led him into their paths, 
and he broke with them. Hoping to find 
some consolation in the study of natural 
sciences, he sought to' apply himself to 
them with an ardor equal to that which 
he had just before shown for the fearful 
principles of the philosophic school ; but 
he found there only weariness, because, stu- 
dying only effects, he could not yet go back 
to the First Cause which had produced them. 

Fatigued by his fruitless efforts to arrive 
at that interior peace of which he so deeply 
felt the want, he thought to lose in material 
enjoyments the weariness which preyed 
upon him, and he gave himself up to them 
with an impetuosity which partook of 
delirium. However, God did not abandon 
him ; the noble sentiments with which his 
heart had ever been animated recovered the 


The Mysterious Beggar. 83 

ascendency ; he was ashamed of himself, 
and renounced those pleasures into which 
despair alone had hurried him. 

Disgusted with the enjoyments of the 
flesh as well as those of the mind, without 
faith, without hope, Felix no longer felt 
any desire ; his moral faculties were ex- 
hausted ; his heart was dry, and incapable 
of undertaking anything. 

He then resolved to divert himself by 
travelling, and he went over all those 
countries of Europe which presented the 
greatest attractions to his curiosity ; but 
weariness and disgust pursued him every- 
where, beneath the beautiful sky of Italy, 
as in the mist that shrouds Great Britain ; 
in the midst of the gayest society of 
capitals, as in the depth of the most desert 
countries. 

During one of his journeys, he met a 
friend of his childhood, who afterwards 
distinguished himself in the F'rench Revo- 
lution, and, like so many others, expiated 
on the scaffold the infatuation with which 
he had embraced the Utopian follies of the 
new legislators. The manuscript only men- 
tions him by the name of Louis. 


84 


Augustine ; or, 


Louis was a young man of a lively dis- 
position ; he loved gaiety and pleasure. 
Nevertheless, he had such an affection for 
Felix that the latter's gloomy and even 
fierce temper did not repel him. He fol- 
lowed him everywhere, and made every 
effort to divert him ; and if he did not 
entirely succeed in dispelling his gloomy 
melancholy, he had at least the pleasure of 
seeing him sensible of the interest which he 
manifested in him. 

Louis had received in his childhood an 
excellent education ; but he had been un- 
able to resist the pernicious example of 
the society in which he lived. He became 
an infidel and a libertine, and only dis- 
covered his delusion when he was con- 
demned to death by those same men whom 
he had been pleased to extol as the founders 
of liberty, whilst they were in reality its 
destroyers. As he was about to mount 
the scaffold, he remembered the last words 
of Felix: “‘Farewell, Louis! save your soul ! ” 
And this last wish of a dying friend led, 
together with the recollections of his child- 
hood, to his entire conversion. 

But let us return to the period when our 


The Mysterious Beggar. 85 


two friends met when returning to France. 
They were both wearied : the one Avith hav- 
ing vainly sought after happiness ; the other 
Avith having too long abused it, if, however, 
a life passed in disorder and forgetfulness of 
God can be called happiness. 

Louis proposed to Felix to take service. 
He maintained that that was the shortest 
and surest means to drive away weariness, 
and to recover his habitual gaiety ; and 
Felix consented. 

The Anglo-Americans had proclaimed 
their independence ; but feeling that they 
could not long sustain it without the aid of 
an allied poAver, they applied to France. 
Louis XVI. hesitated to espouse their 
cause ; the eloquence of Franklin, and the 
voice of public opinion, preA^ailed over his 
reluctance. He recognized American Inde- 
pendence, and Avar was declared with Eng- 
land. Louis and Felix resolved to take part 
therein, and enlisted as simple volunteers in 
the troops Avhich France Avas sending to the 
Ncav World. 

Felix remained there three years; his 
courage often merited for him the most flat- 
tering eulogiums from his commanders, but 


86 Augustine ; or, 

he congratulated himself much more at hav- 
ing found so powerful a means of distrac- 
tion. Now sailing along the shores of a 
boundless ocean, again wandering through 
the virgin forests and immense plains of the 
new continent, he felt his faculties gradual- 
ly returning and his heart expanding. The 
dangers to which he was every day expos- 
ed, and the numberless hardships which he 
had to undergo, offered ever-reviving attrac- 
tions. 

However, the new life which he enjoyed 
was but an artificial life, like that which 
galvanism communicates to a corpse. The 
action of the electric fluid ceasing, the corpse 
resumes its former inertness. It was thus 
that, as long as the bustle of camps, the 
clash of arms, occupied the young soldier’s 
thoughts, he did not feel the void which 
reigned in his soul ; but, finding himself 
alone and away from these powerful distrac- 
tions, he heard an interior voice which said 
to him, as Saint John did to the Christians 
of Sardis: “You appear to be living, but 
you are dead.” 

* “Nomen babes quod vivas, et mortuus es.” 
(Apoc. iii.) 


The Mysterious Beggar. 87 

It was towards the end of the third year 
Avhich he passed in America that an extra- 
ordinary event occurred which was to 
change the destiny of Felix, and condemn 
him for ever to tears and sorrow. Here is 
how he relates it himself in the manuscript, 
w'hich we copy verbatim. 




CHAPTER IX. 

THE SACRILEGE 

NE day, our company was sent 
against the Indians, who had 
become the allies of the Eng- 
lish, and occupied the shores of 
Lake Erie. This expedition presented more 
than ordinary dangers ; this was sufficient 
to make me pursue it with an ardor unfelt 
before. 

Our courage could not save our small 
number from the havoc which the enemy 
made in our ranks. Of ninety men of whom 
our company was composed, there remained 
only twelve, and we were obliged to beat a 
hasty retreat to avoid falling into the hands 
of our adversaries, who would have spared 
our lives only to take it from us later in a 
more atrocious manner. 

In our flight, we had to endure a great 
deal from cold and hunger. Forced to take 





The Mysterious Beggar. 89 


a very circuitous route to rejoin the army, we 
passed several days in the most cruel suffer- 
ings. 

‘‘ One morning, we entered a small Indian 
village which we were far from hoping to 
meet, and, impelled by a ravenous hunger, 
we determined to avenge ourselves for the 
losses we had undergone by pillage ; but all 
the inhabitants had fled at our approach, 
and when we had ransacked every nook and 
corner of their miserable huts, in the hope 
of finding therein some food, we found 
them as empty as though they had already 
been pillaged. 

A cabin built partly of wood and part- 
ly of stone, situated at some distance from 
the village, attracted my attention. I im» 
mediately ran towards it, accompanied by 
a sergeant named Jacques, and I entered. 
A priest was saying Mass; some Indians, 
kneeling around him, were praying with 
profound recollection ; but, when they per- 
ceived us, they arose, terrified, and took 
flight. 

Dare I continue ? Shall I tell of the 
fearful sacrilege with which the devil in- 
spired us ? Ah ! even yet my hair stands 


90 


Augustine ; or, 


on end at this horrible recollection, my 
hand trembles, and I hardly feel strength 
to hold the pen. God of justice ! how 
could I thus provoke thy vengeance ? God 
of goodness ! how could I thus outrage the 
sacrament of thy love ? Pardon, Lord, par- 
don a wretch who was then led astray by 
the spirit of evil, as formerly the Jewish 
deicides knew not what they did ! 

I had, indeed, rejected the fatal doctrines 
of those pretended philosophers who be- 
lieved themselves sent to change the face 
of the world, and regenerate society. I 
had, indeed, returned from their blas- 
phemies and their hatred of legitimate au- 
thority ; their odious egotism had been too 
revolting to me, and I had broken off all 
connection with them ; but, alas ! after 
having withdrawn from their path, I still 
refused to enter into that of truth, and at- 
tach myself to the church which alone could 
fix my belief. I was too proud to submit 
to the faith which she required of me; and, 
unwilling to be an atheist, I had become a 
deist.'^ 

* The atheist is he who denies the existence of God ; 


The Mysterious Beggar. 91 

On setting my foot in the lonely temple 
of the Indians, I felt all Aiy ungodly pas- 
sions revive within me. Besides, the hun- 
ger which had so long tormented me, and 
the vexation at seeing our expedition end 
in so disastrous a manner, had excited my 
fuiy, and, urged by the devil, I resolved to 
vent my anger on the feeble victim whom 
chance had thrown into my hands. 

I approached the altar, and, my eyes 
sparkling with rage, I ordered the minister 
of the living God to furnish us immediate- 
ly with the means of appeasing the hunger 
which consumed us. 

‘ Let me finish,' answered the priest 
mildly, with a look which would have soft- 
ened a tiger ; ‘ then I may be able to satis- 
fy you.' 

‘ We will not wait ; we must be served 
this very moment.' Seizing him violently 
by the arm, I attempted to drag him away; 
but he was still holding the chalice, when 
it slipped from his hands, and the blood of 
the Saviour of the world was spilled on the 
altar and on the ground. 

the deist, he who acknowledges it, but who, rejecting 
revelation, makes a God and religion of his own. 


92 


Augustine ; or, 


I stopped, seized with a secret terror ; 
and I saw the priest, after having taken the 
Sacred Host, cast himself on his knees to 
collect even the smallest drops of the blood 
of his divine Master. He said nothing, 
but his eyes expressed an unspeakable sor- 
row ; and if it could not make me acknow- 
ledge my crime, it at least excited my pity 
for the unhappy old man whom I had so 
sensibly outraged. 

Jacques, whose impiety was not greater 
than mine, but whose disposition was hard- 
er and more savage, picked up the chalice. 

‘ If they refuse us bread,’ said he, ^ here 
is what will procure it for us.’ 

The priest then turned towards him 
with tearful eyes, and would have implored 
him to renounce his sacrilegious design ; 
but his trembling lips could only articulate 
a few incoherent words, and, sinking under 
the excess of his affliction, he fell at my 
feet unconscious. 

Frightened, I ran and took the water 
from the font, and bathed with it the tem- 
ples of the old man, who soon came to him- 
self. I then began to feel all the odious 
ness of my crime, and I could not endure 


The Mysterious Beggar. 93 

the looks of the priest when he again open- 
ed his eyes ; they were so many daggers 
piercing my soul. I wished to wait until 
he was entirely recovered, but I had not 
courage ; I took flight, as though the ven- 
geance of Heaven already pursued me. 

Jacques followed me, carrying the cha- 
lice. ' My friend,' said I to him, ‘ leave 
the chalice there ; it will bring misfortune 
on us.’ 

‘‘ ‘ You tremble,’ answered he; ‘you are 
afraid, and of what ? This vessel will be 
very useful to us, since it will procure us 
bread. We shall perhaps soon find another 
village whose inhabitants will be glad to 
give us something to eat in exchange for 
it.’ 

“ I dared not reply. It seemed to me that 
all nature had conspired against us to pun- 
ish my sacrilege, and I feared even my 
companion in misfortune. His voice had 
in it something so terrible that it was 
echoed in the very depth of my soul. I 
even feared to see him, crazed by hunger, 
throw himself upon me, and devour me. 

“ Our companions were gone, and we 
wandered at random through large clearings. 


94 


Augustine ; or, 


occupied more in seeking some food than 
in finding our way. No game crossed our 
path, and we saw ourselves already doomed 
to die in the midst of this vast wilderness, 
when we came upon a half-extinguished 
fire and some fragments of roasted meat 
which the Indians had doubtless left after a 
halt in this place. We could then satisfy 
the hunger which tormented us, and, throw- 
ing some dried branches on the yet burning 
ashes, we warmed our benumbed limbs. 

“Jacques gradually recovered his gaiety. 
Forgetting all the dangers which we had 
escaped, and careless of those which might 
yet await us, he thought only of the pre- 
sent moment, and ate with as much appe- 
tite as though he was in the midst of his 
comrades. 

“ As for me, I remained silent. The scene 
of the morning pursued me like a hideous 
spectre ; I still seemed to see stretched at 
my feet the unhappy old man whom I had 
outraged in so odious a manner. 

“ However, we could not always remain 
in the same place, and, as we had yet a long 
w'ay to go before rejoining our companions, 
it was necessary for us to provide food for 


The Mysterious Beggar. 95 


the following days. We agreed to go each 
in a different direction, to seek some path, 
or try to kill some game, and afterwards to 
return to the same place, and communicate 
to each other the result of our attempts. 




CHAPTER X. 

THE ANGUISH OF DEATH. 

AVING no other arms than my 
musket, I directed my course 
towards the west, and arrived 
on the banks of a small lake a 
few miles in circumference, which flows 
into Lake Erie by a stream of Avater re- 
sembling a river. A gloomy forest stretched 
all around. 

As the winter had been extremely se- 
vere, the whole lake was covered with a 
thick coat of ice, which appeared likely to 
long resist the first heat of the March sun, 
which already began to be felt. 

A flock of wild ducks attracted my at- 
tention, but, before I could load my gun, 
they flew away, directing their flight over 
the lake. Hoping that they would not de- 
lay in coming down, I followed them, and 
ventured fearlessly on the ice. The wea- 





The Mysterious Beggar. 97 


ther had become milder, although it was 
blowing a little. Dark masses of clouds 
floated in the air, and hid from time to 
time the sun’s disc, which soon shone out 
again with renewed splendor. 

‘‘ As the ice was covered with soft and not 
veiy deep snow, I could, without running 
any great risk, follow the ducks with a 
speed almost equalling their flight ; and,. 
Avhen they were within reach, I discharged, 
my gun. I struck one, which, however, 
being wounded only in one wing, flew 
away. I pursued him. After going a few 
steps, I stopped, terrified at seeing the ice 
already covered with several inches of 
water. 

Undecided as to what course I had bet- 
ter take, I remained a long time motionless. 
It was evidently thawing, and as I had al- 
ready had occasion to observe how rapid it 
is when the first breath of spring has suc- 
ceeded in melting the ice, I saw all the 
horrors of my position. Not daring either 
to advance or recede, I remained as if 
nailed to the spot. 

The weather was calm ; a thick fog be- 
gan to cover the lake, and the heavens 


98 


Augustine ; or, 


presented but a vast network of dark 
clouds which seemed about to precipitate 
themselves upon the earth. Soon large 
flakes of snow began to fall almost perpen- 
dicularly, and, mingled with fine rain, entire- 
ly hid my face. My gaze, turned towards 
the bank, sought to pierce this thick and 
gloomy veil ; I discovered nothing, or 
rather, I saw around me only a wild and 
deserted plain where nothing gave signs of 
life or motion. A deathly silence had suc- 
ceeded to the noise of the wind, and this 
silence was broken only by the plaintive 
cries of the bird whom I had wounded, and 
who was still seeking to avoid me. All 
nature seemed on the point of some great 
event. 

“ I listened, without very well knowing 
what I could hope to hear. Soon terrible 
and prolonged sounds reached me, and, be- 
coming louder and louder, announced to me 
the approach of the danger which I dreaded. 
To faint but repeated crashes succeeded 
from time to time dull, heavy sounds like 
explosions of powder, or of rock torn by a 
mine from the side of a mountain. 

“ The ice commenced to tremble beneath 


The Mysterious Beggar. 99 

my feet like the soil of a volcano. A large 
fissure opened some paces in front of me, 
and the water came up with a terrible noise. 
In a moment the foaming waves were flow- 
ing around me. Terrified, I started back, and 
took to flight, thinking that I was approach- 
ing the bank, but I was stopped by another 
fissure. 

Seeking a circuit by which to escape this 
new danger, I redoubled my efforts to dis- 
cover my situation ; but I could distinguish 
nothing through the snow, which continued 
to fall with ever-increasing force. The 
wind, which had again risen, rustling in the 
trees on the bank, was the only thing 
which announced that I was not far from 
shore. 

Blinded by the snow which the wind 
drove in my face, and diz.zy with the noise 
of the hurricane, I almost lost the use of 
my senses. I thought I saw my comrades 
making signs to me from the bank above ; 
I even thought I distinguished their cos- 
tumes, their arms, and heard their voices ; 
but a gust of wind dispelled these fantastic 
cloud-pictures, and I became again aware 
of the terrible reality. 


100 


Augustine ; or, 


I fired several shots from my musket, as 
a signal of distress, hoping that they might 
be heard by a friend, or even by an enemy ; 
but the echoes of the shore alone fully 
repeated the noise of the discharge. No 
human voice answered me. 

‘‘ Meanwhile, my sufferings became more 
and more terrible, and the ice, which was 
splitting with a horrible noise, threatened 
me with certain death. I recalled then the 
crime which I had committed the morning 
of that same day, and I thought that 
punishment was following close upon it. 
Strange thing ! even at this moment, I had 
no faith in the mysteries of religion, and yet 
I trembled at the recollection of what I had 
done. I wished to pray, but my heart was 
dried up. I wished to invoke the God of the 
Christians whom I had so often blasphemed. 
Alas ! unhappily consistent with my prin- 
ciples, I was ashamed of this pretended 
weakness ; I feared to resemble those liber- 
tine sailors who think of God only when in 
danger, and I persisted in trusting to no 
other assistance than my courage and pru- 
dence. 

Exhausted by my long journey, I threw 


The Mysterious Beggar. 


lOI 


away my gun, and rushed with a sort of 
fury through the whirlwinds of snow which 
surrounded me on every side. It had be- 
come so thick that I could scarcely breathe. 
I lost all feeling of fear, and felt within me 
a sort of delirious pleasure in struggling 
against the storm. 

I continued to run, leaping over all the 
openings which met me at every step, but 
yet without knowing in what direction I 
was advancing. Everywhere the ice was 
giving away beneath my feet ; everywhere 
I saw death impending ; but I knew there 
was as much danger for me in remaining 
still as in running ; and by running I might 
yet hope to gain the shore. 

Night came on; the darkness soon be- 
came so dense that I could no longer take 
a step without being exposed to fall into 
some abyss. I wrapped myself in my cloak, 
and lay down on the ice, in the hope that 
the cold would benumb my limbs, and take 
away from me all sense of my condition. 
But the temperature was above zero, and I 
saw myself condemned to suffer from one 
moment to another all the anguish of a fear- 
ful death. 


102 


Augustine ; or, 


Hardly had I lain down, when I heard 
the howling of a wolf. This terrible noise 
resounded in my ears like the chords of a 
harmonious melody, and, rising immediate- 
ly, I was about to run in the direction 
whence it came. But reflecting on the in- 
numerable dangers of such an undertaking, 
I entirely lost courage, and resumed my 
former position. Then I listened only to 
the noise of the floating ice which was 
knocking against the yet unmoved piece on 
which I was. 

‘‘ New terrors took possession of my soul ; 
they were warnings which God sent to 
recall me to himself. Instead of listening 
to this interior voice which would not let 
me sleep, I forced myself, on the contrary, 
to stifle it by diverting my thoughts from 
the fearful future which awaited me. 

I closed my eyes, as if, in spite of the 
principles of that stoical philosophy which 
I had embraced, I did not feel courage to 
look death in the face. It was that, with- 
out daring to confess it to myself, I already 
felt a sort of indefinable apprehension of 
the fate which was reserved for my soul 
on its departure from this world. Until 


The Mysterious Beggar. 103 

now, the tumult of pleasure had prevented 
me from reflecting seriously upon it ; and in 
the thickest of battles, stunned by the 
cries of the victors and the moans of the 
vanquished, it had been impossible for me 
to dwell on this salutary thought. But 
then, when there was nothing to distract 
me, I could remember all that I had heard 
said on the judgment which follows death, 
and I felt a cold sweat overspreading all 
my limbs. 

‘‘ All at once I felt the ice move under me. 
I arose, full of terror, and I saw the whole 
surface of the lake in motion. My sight 
grew dim, and, like a man who is falling 
into an abyss, I extended my arms in every 
direction to catch at the first object which 
might come to my hand. 

In that terrible moment, I thought all 
nature was overturned. The noise made 
by the ice in breaking, and the knocking 
of one piece against the other, was terrific, 
and my ears were deafened by it. 

Sometimes I saw enormous masses arrest 
the progress of smaller ones which the tor- 
rent pushed against them, and which, being 
piled upon the others, formed fantastic 


104 


Augustine ; or, 


pyramids and towers of a thousand different 
shapes. The pale light of the moon made 
them appear like spectres covered with 
white shrouds, and their aspect, continually 
changing, increased my fright more and 
more. 

By a singular chance, or rather by a 
special intervention of Providence, who 
wished to give me time for repentance, the 
piece of ice on which I stood was so large 
and thick that it resisted the repeated 
shocks which it had to sustain. Other 
pieces of ice were soon heaped upon it, 
and formed a species of hillock six or seven 
feet high, to which I clung, and whence I 
could contemplate this scene of horror. 

The wind, which had become stronger, 
drove my iceberg across the lake with an 
extreme velocity, and the continual turning 
round of this floating island caused such a 
dizziness that my imagination was affected 
by it. 

'' I thought I saw the snow falling, and 
all at once a troop of armed Indians pass 
before me, who, deaf to my cries, continued 
their way, with heads bent and eyes cast 
down. Then I thought I was sailing on a 


The Mysterious Beggar. 105 


vast sea, and felt the burning rays of a sum- 
mer sun, which caused my last support to 
sink beneath my feet. 

I was usually only drawn from these 
gloomy reveries, or, more correctly speak- 
ing, from this profound delirium, by some 
violent shock, and I fell back almost im- 
mediately into the same delusions. 

At last a shock greater than any which 
had preceded it, and which was near throw- 
ing me into the lake, put an end to the 
wanderings of my senses, and, as the ice- 
berg which bore me had ceased to turn 
round, I perceived that I was descending 
the current of a river. This sight revived 
my hopes. I again thought seriously of 
the means of saving myself. I remarked, 
with an inexpressible joy, that the water of 
the river was still frozen along the banks, 
and that I was approaching nearer and 
nearer to it. 

“ When the iceberg struck the still solid 
ice which separated me from the shore, I 
jurnped on to this plank of safety, and com- 
menced to run towards land. Hardly did 
I allow my feet to rest on the ice, so fear- 
ful was I of seeing it break under my feet ; 


io6 Augustine ; or, 

but I happily reached the land, and I fell 
powerless in the moss which covered the 
banks. 

Then, O my God ! I should have thank- 
ed thee for the infinite goodness with 
which thou hadst snatched me from the 
arms of death ; but, like those mariners of 
whom I have spoken before, and despised 
as being inconsistent, I also forgot, as 
soon as the danger was passed, all the re- 
flections to which it had given rise in my 
mind. 

Day had dawned ; I discovered neither 
men nor animals, nor even any trace of a 
living being. One of those vast forests 
which are met with only in the New World 
covered all the surrounding country to the 
furthest limits of the horizon. I did not 
dare to trust myself in this labyrinth, 
where I might be lost at any moment, and 
I resolved to follow the river-bank. 

Soon I perceived a column of smoke 
which arose through the trees, and I ad- 
vanced in that direction. I found a troop 
of Indians squatted around a large fire. 
There were two men, three women, and 
some children, who all kept their eyes fixed 


The Mysterious Beggar. 107 

on the fire in the most profound silence 
and complete inaction. 

I was received with an indifference 
which, in my condition, left me little 
hope. However, sitting amongst them, I 
had the good-fortune to make myself un- 
derstood ; for, since my arrival in America, 
I had learned a little of the language of 
these savages. It would have been useless 
and even imprudent to declare my distress ; 
and I conten'ted myself with asking some- 
thing to eat. After some words, unintel- 
ligible to me, which they addressed to each 
other, they at last consented to give me a 
portion of the roast meat which they had 
just taken from off the fire ; but they did 
it with such a bad grace that I easily saw 
that they were animated by hostile feelings. 

The weather was gloomy and melan- 
choly. A fine, drizzling rain, such as the 
thaw produces in North America, filled the 
air, and the shelter under which we were 
could hardly defend us from it. 

“ The Indians had resumed their first im- 
passibility, and I could give myself up un- 
interruptedly to all the gloomy reflections 
suggested by the strange company in which 


io8 Augustine ; or, 

I was. I did not see how I could rejoin my 
friends, and I doubted, with reason, whether 
the Indians would show me the way. One 
of them especially regarded me with a 
glance so piercing that I felt as if crushed. 
He seemed to be still young ; his face was 
repulsively ugly, and his eyes shone with a 
light which made me shudder. 

“ Towards the mrddle of the day, the rain 
ceased falling, and my companions prepared 
to depart. When all was ready, they arose 
without saying a word, and started. I re- 
marked that they were not pleased to have 
me with them ; nevertheless, I took courage, 
and followed them, preferring to expose my- 
self to become their victim rather than wan- 
der in the woods, and therc die of hunger. 
Suddenly the chief of the troop, the same 
who had regarded me so fixedly, stopped, 
and demanded where I had put my gun. I 
answered that I had left it on the ice. 

‘ Take care,’ said he, ‘ do not offend the 
Great Spirit by saying that which is not so. 
We know you came to make war on us ; 
but we have given you hospitality ; you 
have eaten of our meat, we do not wish to 
harm you. Depart, if your life is dear to 


The Mysterious Beggar. 109 


you ; return to your own people. I have 
told you the truth, for my tongue is not 
forked. Go, and return no more.' 

I knew not how to answer these words, 
for their very tone had chilled me. At 
length I related the danger which I had run 
on the ice, and I thought I perceived that 
this recital made a favorable impression on 
the second of my companions. He spoke 
for some time with the chief in a low voice, 
and the chief made a sign that I might fol- 
low them. 

We pursued our march with a speed 
which astonished me all the more that I 
could distinguish no trace of a path. Only 
our guide stopped from time to time, for a 
moment attentively regarded the trees, 
then continued his way with the same 
rapidity as before. No one spoke, and the 
silence of the forest was broken only by 
the rustling of the dry leaves on which we 
trod. 

^‘Although I no longer feared to die of 
hunger, yet I could not dwell without a 
shudder on the thought that I was in the 
midst of enemies who would perhaps profit 
by the first opportunity to sacrifice me to 


no 


Augustine. 


their cruelty. I had not slept the night 
before ; besides, I was so much exhausted 
by fatigue that I had scarcely strength to 
follow my companions. 




CHAPTER XI. 

PUNISHMENT OF CRIME. 

HORTLY after sunset, we 
halted to pass the night. 
The men prepared a kind of 
tent, and the women lit the 
fire. A young buffalo which our guide had 
killed on the way was soon cut up and put 
to roast. 

When the meat was ready, the Indians 
seated themselves around, and I obtained 
for my share a large enough piece, which I 
devoured rather than ate. But the same 
silence which had reigned during our jour- 
ney reigned also during our repast. My 
companions seemed to feel the influence of 
the season, and to partake of the gloom of 
nature. 

After the meal, the Indians stretched 
themselves around the fire, as motionless as 
mute as though they were beings depriv- 



II2 


Augustine ; or, 


ed of reason ; I lay down myself under the 
foot of a tree at some distance, and I soon 
fell into a profound sleep. 

It was hardly midnight when I was 
awakened by a man who caught me by the 
hand, and, when I opened my eyes, I recog- 
nized by the pale light of the moon the In- 
dian who had obtained the chiefs permis- 
sion for me to follow them. He placed his 
finger on his lips to enforce silence, and 
made me a sign to depart with him. I 
obeyed, and he conducted me to a sufficient 
distance that he might not fear to awaken 
the others. 

‘ Hear my words,' said he to me. ‘ Snake 
Eye has spared you because, appearing be- 
fore him unarmed, you obtained hospitality 
from him ; but do not trust him in future. 
His hatred for the whites will recover the 
ascendency, and then woe to you.' 

^ What can I do ? ' answered I, terror- 
stricken. ‘ Death threatens me from all 
sides. I wish to rejoin my friends, and I do 
not know in what direction to advance.' 

Have patience ; I will guide you myself. 
But as we must not awaken the chiefs sus- 
picions, you will gain that tree which you 


The Mysterious Beggar. 113 

see thrown down by the wind ; you will 
hide in the neighborhood, and await my re- 
turn. To-morrow evening I will come tc 
take you.' 

Before I could reply, the Indian had 
already left me to rejoin his companions ; 
and, my heart full of unutterable anguish, I 
directed myself hastily towards the place 
which had been pointed out to me. 

The tree had been pulled up by the 
roots, and its roots, still full of earth, rose 
to a height of twelve or fourteen feet. I 
sat down behind this shelter, and, confiding 
in my preserver’s promise, I gradually re- 
gained my courage, and, falling asleep again, 
I did not awake till late the next day. 

On awakening, I thought I saw through 
the fog something approaching me ; I could 
not yet distinguish whether it was a man 
or an animal. I feared that it was a wild 
beast, and, taking counsel only of my fear, 
I plunged deeper into the woods. 

After having remained some time hid- 
den, neither seeing nor hearing anything, 
I thought that my frightened imagination 
had deceived me, and I wished to return to 
the tree ; unhappily, I had forgotten to ob- 


Augustine ; or, 


1 4 

serve the way which I had taken, and, 
thinking to regain my first position, I went 
further and further away from it. 

When I felt the sad certainty that I had 
lost my way, I still wished to try and take 
another direction to get out of this terrible 
labyrinth, but all my efforts ended in going 
further and further astray. 

I ran from one place to another, calling 
with loud cries on him who was to save me 
from this fearful wilderness ; but I was 
answered by the echo which repeated my 
words, as if in mockery of my grief. The 
same terrors which I had felt when descend- 
ing the river on the floating ice now assailed 
me, and I thought that the day of divine 
vengeance had arrived. 

‘T was seized with a violent vertigo, which 
changed the’ shape of all the surrounding 
objects. I seemed to see the trees, torn 
from the earth, knock against each other, 
and dance in an infernal ring about me, 
whilst the sun’s disc, darkened, swung in the 
whitened vault of heaven. 

For a long time I forced myself to com- 
bat these phantoms created by my deliri- 
ous imagination ; I could not succeed. At 


Tpie Mysterious Beggar. 115 

length, tired out, I fell on the damp 
ground, hiding my face in my hands, like a 
child in the dark who thinks he sees a 
ghost. However, I gradually recovered 
the use of my reason, and, thinking that I 
must not be very far from the tree beside 
which my preserver had told me to wait, I 
gave myself up anew to the hope that he 
would know where to find me. I called 
him again with loud shouts ; and, without 
going far from the spot which I had occu- 
pied, I looked in all directions to try and 
discover the one which I had so unfortu- 
nately forgotten. But a strong and con- 
tinuous wind had risen, driving before it a 
dense fog, which prevented me from seeing 
anything, and the roaring of the wind in 
the branches of the trees was so great that 
I could no longer hear my own voice. 

Rumblings as fearful as those which had 
announced the breaking of the ice; dull and 
confused murmurs, coming from the depth 
of the wood, struck upon my ear. It was 
one of those fearful hurricanes, so frequent 
and so terrible in the New World, and of 
which the Old Continent offers but feeble 
images. The strongest trees were bent by 


ii6 Augustine; or, 

the force of the wind ; the severed branches 
flew in splinters through the air. All na- 
ture appeared threatened with destruction. 

Frozen with terror, I was crouched be- 
hind a tree, and I feared at every instant to 
see it fall and crush me. I thought I saw 
all the others thrown down, though they 
were only shaken. At length, yielding to 
fear, I crept to the trunk of another tree 
long since stretched on the ground, and re- 
solved to wait there till the hurricane was 
over. 

Towards evening, the wind abated, 
the fog disappeared, and I perceived above 
my head the azure of the firmament. En- 
couraged by this pleasing sight, I came out 
from my hiding-place, and determined to 
make new efforts to find the tree at which 
the Indian had promised to meet me. I 
was going, when all at once the report of 
fire-arms arrested my attention. I re- 
mained where I was, struck with astonish- 
ment ; but I soon recovered myself, and, 
running in the direction whence I expected 
safety, I found the Indian trying to find 
me. 

“ ‘ Why did you go away from me ? * said 


The Mysterious Beggar. 117 

he. ‘ Not meeting you here, I thought 
you had gone astray, and I fired a musket- 
shot to recall you. Rest easy. Snake Eye 
has ceased to live. When I returned to 
where he was, he was still sleeping soundly. 
This morning, as he no longer saw you, he 
asked me what had become of you. I 
answered that I knew nothing about you. 
But his piercing glance guessed my 
thoughts, and, without saying a single word, 
he turned in the direction opposite to this, 
in the hope of meeting you. He, in fact, 
supposed that you had followed the road 
which leads to the dwellings of the whites. 
After a long march, we saw far before us a 
man who looked like you, and, quitting the 
rest of the troop. Snake Eye rushed upon 
him. But I had promised to save you, and, 
following the chief closely, I struck him from 
behind with my tomahawk, and stretched 
him dead at my feet. He whom I took for 
you fled. I soon overtook him ; he had 
fallen, exhausted with fatigue and hunger. 
I gave him something to eat, and, when he 
was satisfied, I spoke to him. He could 
not answer me. He is now fast asleep ; 
and I came to find and conduct you to him, 


ii8 Augustine; or, 

for I think that he is one of your friends. 
He is white like you, and wears the same 
dress.’ 

^^From the Indian’s account, I could no 
longer doubt that the white man of whom 
he spoke was Jacques, my companion in 
misfortune. I followed my guide, and after 
a pretty long walk, when the sun had 
already sunk beneath the horizon, I found 
Jacques fast asleep. The Indian showed me 
at a little distance the body of Snake Eye, 
which he had hidden amongst the bushes. I 
helped to bury the body, and we returned 
to Jacques, who had at last awoke. 

He uttered a cry of joy on recognizing 
me ; and I learned from him that, after 
having wandered for a long time in the 
wood, where, to avoid dying of hunger, he 
had been obliged to eat reptiles, he had 
been surprised by the last hurricane, and 
had suffered a great deal. I related to him, 
in turn, the singular adventures which had 
happened to me since our separation ; and 
we thanked the Indian who had brought us 
together. Alas ! in our blindness we would 
not acknowledge the hand of Providence, 
which had been extended over us to protect 


The Mysterious Beggar, 119 


us, and which had permitted the dangers 
we had run to call us to repentance. 

Jacques still had the chalice. On show- 
ing it to me, he made use of some impious 
language which disgusted me. I dared not 
say anything to him ; but I deeply felt how 
misplaced were such words in the mouth of 
a man who still had so much need of the 
assistance of that same Providence to which 
he already owed his preservation. Ah ! if 
he had had to suffer the same agonies that 
I had, he would not, perhaps, have added 
new blasphemies to the sacrilege which we 
had committed. 

After having passed the night on the 
spot where we met, the Indian showed us 
the route we must follow to reach the camp. 
Jacques gave him his gun as a token of gra- 
titude ; I gave him my cloak, and we parted. 

The sun had not yet attained the me- 
ridian of its course, when we were sudden- 
ly surrounded by a numerous troop of In- 
dians, who, hidden behind some bushes, ap- 
peared awaiting our approach. Jacques 
then repented of having deprived himself 
of his musket ; but he still had his sword, 
and he drew it. 


120 


Augustine ; or, 


^‘Too certain that we could not defend 
ourselves, I snatched the sword from his 
hands ; and, addressing myself to the In- 
dians, I made them understand that we 
wished to do them no harm ; and that we 
only asked to pass quietly through the 
country to rejoin our friends. 

‘‘ ‘ You are our enemies,’ said the chief of 
the troop, ‘ and, therefore, our prisoners.’ 

They immediately stripped us of our 
clothes. When the Indians discovered the 
chalice, which Jacques had wrapped care- 
fully in his cloak, they uttered cries of rage, 
and every arm was raised against us. 

‘ It is the chalice which our father 
used,’ said the chief, his eyes sparkling with 
anger. ‘ We must avenge him ! ’ 

We learned from these words that our 
enemies belonged to the same village which 
we had attempted to pillage some days be- 
fore, and where Jacques and I had pol- 
luted ourselves with a horrible crime. I 
vrould have persuaded them to suspend the 
effects of their too just wrath, and conduct 
us to the missionary who attended their 
little parish. They refused to listen to me, 
and immediately set to work to execute the 


The Mysterious Beggar. 121 


sentence of condemnation which the chief 
had pronounced upon us. 

After having bound us both to trees, 
they began with Jacques, whom they had 
found in possession of the chalice. They 
lit a large fire at his feet, and, after cutting 
off his hands, they tore open his bowels. 

The miserable man uttered fearful cries 
which pierced my soul ; but, although I had 
the conviction that the same fate was re- 
served for me, I had still sufficient courage 
to cry out to him : 

Jacques, do not blaspheme, you have 
done enough of evil ; an avenging God pur- 
sues us. Pray and repent.' 

This warning, far from turning him 
back, seemed to irritate him more. Fright- 
ful oaths, horrible blasphemies, were his 
only reply, and I saw him die without re- 
pentance, without hope, without consola- 
tion ! 

When he had ceased to live, the Indians 
turned to me. An icy shivering seized me. 
I tried to pray, but, in spite of the want 
which I felt of it, I could not. It seemed 
that there was no more mercy for me, that 
God was wearied ofi my impiety, and that 


122 


Augustine ; or, 


I had only to expect to feel the effects of 
his justice. Ah ! how sharp was the re- 
morse which tortured my soul ! How ter- 
rible the thought that I was about to fall 
into the hands of an inexorable Judge ! 

I had closed my eyes that I might not 
see the preparations for my torture, and, 
plunged in my gloomy thoughts, I no long- 
er heard my murderers’ cries of rage, when 
suddenly a louder voice sounded in my ears. 

‘‘ I raised my head, and saw before me 
that same old man whom I had dragged 
from the altar. 

The Indians surrounded him, and 
showed him the chalice. But before an- 
swering them, he approached and unbound 
me. I fell powerless at his feet. He raised 
me gently, and ordered the Indians to bring 
water, with which he bathed my temples. 

When he had revived me, he blamed 
the cruelty of the Indians with a severity 
which astonished me, and I remarked that 
his words made a deep impression on them. 
They afterwards buried the body of the 
unfortunate Jacques, and, the priest having 
made me a sign to follow him, we departed 
together. 


The Mysterious Beggar. 123 

“ In approaching the village, we saw wo- 
men and children running to meet us, who 
received us with the greatest demonstra- 
tions of joy. They all gathered around 
the missionary, and respectfully kissed his 
hand. They afterwards accompanied him 
to his dwelling, which was not much better 
than the huts of the other inhabitants. 

The old man made a sign for me to 
enter, and served me with bread, fruits, and 
game. I had had for several days only 
miserable food, and yet I did not venture 
to touch what he offered me. I was con- 
fused at owing my life to a man whom I 
had treated so shamefully, and I was at the 
same time surprised at the silence he ob- 
served in my regard ; for, since the moment 
when he had restored me to liberty, he had 
not addressed to me the slightest word. 

Leaving me entirely given up to my 
reflections, he knelt before the image of 
Christ, the sole ornament of his wretched 
dwelling ; and, when the sun was near set- 
ting, he showed me a bed of leaves placed 
in a sort of closet adjoining the principal 
room, and, after having bid me good-night, 
he retired. 


124 


Augustine. 


“ Although the fatigue of the march, and 
the emotions of the day, had entirely ex- 
hausted my strength, I could not close an 
eye all night. Shame and remorse for my 
crime drove far from me the sleep which I 
needed so much ; and, besides, I was again 
seized with new terrors. 

“ ‘ God ! ’ cried I, in the anguish of my 
heart, ‘have I been spared but to suffer 
later a still more cruel death ? ’ 

“ I wished to fly, but I fell back on my 
bed, a prey to the most violent despair. 
Next day the priest came to see me ; I was 
no longer conscious of my existence ; I was 
in the delirium of fever.” 




CHAPTER XIL 

BENEFITS OF RELIGION. 

FTER two days of mortal suf- 
ferings, I at length came to 
myself. The good old man 
to whom I owed my life was 
beside me. His eyes shone with love and 
pity; a tear glistened in them, and I felt 
his hand tremble as it held mine. 

‘‘ ‘ God be praised ! ' said he, ‘ you are now 
saved. I feared much for you ; but I was 
still more uneasy for the salvation of your 
soul than for the life of your body. You 
were surprised, doubtless, at the silence 
with which I received you ; you were then 
too much agitated to understand what I 
would have said to you, and I put off to a 
more favorable moment the care of speak- 
ing to you of God and of your soul. The 
delirium into which you have fallen since 
prevented me, and I was compelled to wait 





126 


Augustine ; or, 


until to-day to speak to you of the impor- 
tant affair of your salvation. I will not re- 
proach you with the sin you committed in 
attacking God ; but you have experienced, 
and your unfortunate friend, whom I would 
willingly have saved, has experienced in a 
still more cruel manner, how terrible is God 
in his punishments towards those who dare 
to place a sacrilegious hand on the body of 
his Son. You have been spared because 
the Lord wished not the death, but the life, 
of your soul. Thank him for his infinite 
goodness, and beseech him to enlighten you 
with his light, that you may acknowledge 
your fault, and, by your repentance, may 
also deserve your pardon.’ 

“ Encouraged by words so gentle and be- 
nevolent, I thanked the priest, and tears of 
gratitude and repentance gushed from my 
eyes. 

“ ‘ I forgive you,’ continued he, those un- 
just prejudices which modern infidelity 
has inspired in you against us ; but I hope 
in the end you will judge us more favorably. 
Perhaps you still fear my vengeance, as if 
the torments which your friend underwent, 
the torture which was reserved for yourself. 


The Mysterious Beggar. 127 

were not sufficiently cruel. Ah ! rather give 
thanks to religion, which has restrained the 
arm and the wrath of these savage children 
of nature, who only yesterday became chil- 
dren of God, and who, to avenge their faith, 
knew not how to punish in a milder manner 
the profanation of which you had been 
guilty. Nevertheless, their anger gave way 
before the representative of their God, and 
it is not the first time that I have recalled 
them to humanity by the voice of religion. 
These people are yet children in the spiritual 
life which they have but recently received, 
and they require to be often warned, and 
even sometimes punished, when they forget 
that a Christian must pardon his enemies.’ 

I afterwards related to the missionary my 
adventures on the lake and in the woods ; 
he again took occasion from that to repre- 
sent the deplorable state in which my soul 
was, and to make me understand how grate- 
ful I should be towards Providence, which 
had so constantly watched over me. 

‘ You confess,’ said he, ‘ that you could 
not pray, even when you felt its imperative 
necessity ; and that astonishes you. Ah ! 
my friend, when we have been so long away 


128 


Augustine ; or, 


from our God, when we have taken plea- 
sure in hollowing out an abyss between his 
mercy and our unworthiness, it is very diffi- 
cult to return to better sentiments, although 
danger often seems to make this return to 
prayer easy for us. How many unfortu- 
nates have been thus taken unprovided ! 
How many have waited till the last moment 
to return to God, and had not then the time 
or the strength ! Your mind was weakened 
by the struggle which you had to sustain 
against fear, and your body was worn out 
by fatigue and want of nourishment. You 
saw your cruel condition in all its horrors, 
the death and judgment which awaited you, 
and yet you could not address a single sigh 
to heaven ; your heart was dry, and your 
lips mute. Ah ! would to God that all sin- 
ners might feel such tortures ! they would 
learn not to put off their conversion till 
their last hour. 

“ ‘ I speak to you as to a Christian, although 
the crime which you have committed de- 
notes a man who does not believe in God ; 
but you have still some recollections of your 
early childhood, and your heart cannot be 
entirely hardened. Whatever be the dispo- 


The Mysterious Beggar. 129 


sitions of your soul, you can always pray. I 
understand how difficult this must appear to 
you ; but think of your soul ; consider that, 
if you have been saved from death this time, 
you will not always escape, and that the 
moment will come when you shall appear 
before the dread tribunal of a just and 
severe God. Ah ! I beseech you, make an 
effort, and, if you cannot yet pray from the 
abundance of the heart, pray at least with 
your lips. The Lord, touched by these 
efforts, will enlighten you with his light, 
and strengthen you with his grace.' 

^^According as the old man spoke, I felt the 
veil torn aside which until then had blinded 
me, and hope sprang up in my soul, so long 
a prey to discouragement and distrust. 

Meanwhile, the worthy minister of 
Jesus Christ lavished on me cares such as 
a mother would upon her child, and I soon 
recovered my health and strength. 

One day, I asked him how he had 
come to that country. He told me that 
he was of Flemish origin ; that, after the 
suppression of the Jesuits, the Order to . 
which he belonged, he had remained in 
America, and had continued to preach the 


130 


Augustine ; or, 


Gospel to the savage tribes, going from one 
village to another, and reaping everywhere 
the most beautiful fruits of the divine 
Word. 

“ ‘ I had much to suffer,’ said he, ‘ especi- 
ally in the beginning ; but God sustained 
me with his grace and consolation. Ah! 
if the worldlings who pity us knew how 
sweet it is to suffer for the glory of the 
Lord and the salvation of souls; if they 
knew how much happiness there is in the 
privations to which we condemn ourselves, 
in the dangers which assail us every day, 
they would lay aside their frivolous plea- 
sures, and come to share our labor and 
our fatigue. They despise us as weak 
enthusiasts, who prefer the pains of a hard 
and adventurous life to the enjoyments of 
society, the consolations of a family and of 
devoted friends. But do they enjoy these 
pleasures, these consolations? Ah! theii 
life is crossed by sufferings no less cruel 
than yours; and, in the weariness which 
consumes them in the midst of pleasures 
even the noisiest, have they a friend who 
consoles them as the Lord deigns to con- 
sole us ? I am, for many years, deprived 


The Mysterious Beggar. 13 i 

of the society of civilized men ; but I do 
not regret it, for I am here in the midst of 
my savages like a father among his chil- 
dren ; and what enjoyment more sweet than 
that which he finds in the bosom of his 
family ? ' 

These words were pronounced with a 
warmth which attested the most sincere 
conviction. The holy joy which I saw 
beaming in the old man’s features recalled 
my disgust of life and the indefinable in- 
quietude which I had felt since I lent an 
ear to the sophistry^ of error, and abandoned 
my heart to the seductions of vice. 

Every day I saw the Indians come and 
offer to the worthy priest the products of 
the chase, and the women brought him 
fruits. He took only what was absolutely 
necessary for him, and never dismissed the 
savages without addressing to them some 
pious words and giving them his blessing. 
They always received it kneeling, with 
their hands joined ; and, before rising, 
they kissed respectfully tlie skirt of his 
soutane. 

‘^'You see,’ said he to me, ‘how God 
takes care of me. He gives me all that is 


132 


Augustine. 


necessary to the preservation of my life ; 
and, if I have not the luxuries which people 
of the world enjoy at their splendid tables, 
I have not either the cares which often be- 
set them when they are obliged to defray 
the expenses which their sensuality im- 
poses upon them. I need not be anxious 
about what I shall eat to-morrow, for I 
trust that God will provide it ; and this 
confidence has never yet been betrayed.’ 




CHAPTER XIII. 

RETURN TO THE FAITH. 

HEN I was strong enough to 
go out, Father Bernard — so 
the missionary was called — 
or, to use the language of 
the Indians, the Fathery invited me to ac- 
company him to the church. 

I trembled on entering that place which 
I had so odiously profaned. The Indians 
and their wives and children were kneeling 
on the damp ground, and praying with a 
recollection which I could not remember 
to have seen in our splendid basilicas in 
Europe. And I, brought up amongst Chris- 
tians; I, received, at my birth, into the 
society of the children of God ; I — O my 
Saviour ! pardon ! pardon for an ingrate 
a thousand times more guilty than the 
Jews who crucified thee! 

I wished to pray, but my heart still 





134 Augustine ; or, 

refused ; it seemed that an abyss separated 
me from that God whom I had so long 
disowned. I was like a man bound, 
stretched on the ground, without power 
to rise, and soliciting in vain the aid of a 
charitable hand. I felt, however, all the 
extent of my misery, and my eyes began 
to be opened to the light of truth. 

I envied the happy fate of the Indians, 
whom I heard reciting with such lively 
faith the Lord’s Prayer, of which I had 
retained only a faint remembrance ; and, 
with tears in my eyes, I could at last pray 
the God of mercy to give me a faith equal 
to that which the youngest child among 
these savages possessed. 

On my return to the cabin of my pre- 
server, I informed him of all that had passed 
within me during the holy sacrifice. 

‘ What you tell me is consoling,’ an- 
swered he, ‘ for you are in the way of sal- 
vation. Faith is only a gift from heaven ; 
in asking for it, you show that you already 
have it. Courage, then, my friend, hope in 
the power of him who has preserved you 
till this day, that he may make manifest in 
you his infinite goodness. Continue to pray, 


The Mysterious Beggar. 135 

and you will see the darkness of your mind 
disappear, like the shades of night at the 
approach of the sun. If you are not tired 
of me, I will try to dispel your doubts, and 
you will one day acknowledge how good 
God is towards those who invoke him and 
hope in him.’ 

I accepted this proposal with a joy as 
lively as it was sincere, and I resolved to 
profit by this occasion to become thoroughly 
instructed in the truths of a religion which I 
had learned to love in the person of the holy 
priest to whom I owed so much gratitude. 

I remained with him for nearly three 
months, and all this time was employed in 
my instruction. I will ever recall the happy 
moments when that worthy successor of 
the Apostles taught me the first principles 
of faith, and sought to enkindle in my heart 
the divine fire with which his own was in- 
flamed. Often I saw tears flowing from 
his eyes, and his chest heaving with the 
emotion with which he spoke to me. He 
not only proposed to enlighten me, but he 
also wished to touch me, and, thanks be to 
the Author of all good, my heart did not 
remain insensible. 


136 


Augustine ; or, 


When I had got over my absurd errors, 
when all the prejudices against religion 
which I had so long entertained were dis- 
pelled, when at last I had learned to love 
that which I had despised, and to despise 
that which I had loved, my preserver re- 
minded me that, after having discovered 
my faults, I must still merit pardon by 
penance. 

I understood his meaning, and it was 
with joy that I began to prepare myself for 
a general confession of my whole life. Alas ! 
I had made none since my first communion, 
and my conscience was burdened with many 
sins. 

But the devil, jealous of seeing snatched 
from him a victim on whom he had so long 
counted, made every effort to oppose my 
conversion by disturbing my soul. It 
seemed to me that my sins could not be 
pardoned ; the abyss which separated me 
from my God appeared to me impassable. 

The crime which I had lately commit- 
ted against the blood of my Saviour was 
the subject of most terrible anguish to me ; 
I seemed ever to hear the voice of that 
blood calling down heavenly vengeance 


The Mysterious Beggar. 137 

upon me. Soon despair took possession of 
my soul, and, deaf to all the words of the 
pious missionary, I ran into the woods like 
a madman, and my cries disturbed the vast 
solitude. 

Several times I was tempted to destroy 
my life, which appeared to me a heavy bur- 
den ; often I regretted having learned the 
truth, and returned to that belief which 
caused my torment. I could then compare 
my condition to that of the damned who 
have faith, but without either hope or 
charity ; and, since I thought myself thus 
reprobate, I was anxious to see my fate de- 
cided for eternity, and I wished to kill my- 
self. 

However, God watched over me, and, 
when I refused to listen to the voice of his 
minister, the latter, prostrate at the foot of 
the cross, prayed for me and wept over my 
sufferings. At last grace prevailed, hope 
recovered the ascendency, my frightened 
imagination was calmed, and my heart was 
opened anew to the sweet inspirations of 
the divine Spirit. 

‘‘ Coming forth from this struggle, I felt 
myself, as it were, regenerated ; and I, who 


138 Augustine; or, 

some days before would not hear of confes- 
sion, was the first to ask my benefactor to 
hear mine. It would be impossible to paint 
the joy which my return to sentiments more 
worthy of the mercy of my God caused him ; 
he pressed me to his heart with transport, 
and I felt his tears fall upon my face, as 
the prodigal son felt those of his father 
when the poor youth prostrated himself at 
his feet to confess his fault. 

The next day after the day when I had 
given him this good news, I rose early, and, 
after remaining a long time in prayer, I 
went to him to make my confession. It 
was not long, for he already knew all my 
miseries ; but according as I revealed the 
secrets of my heart, I felt as if relieved from 
a heavy burden which had overpowered 
me. 

I thought he would submit me to a long 
proof, to assure himself of the sincerity of 
my repentance ; he was pleased to accom- 
plish all my desires immediately, by giving 
me absolution. 

‘ My brother,' said he to me, ^ you have 
been very ungrateful towards your God ; 
you have long rejected his love ; but I feel 


The Mysterious Beggar. 139 

confident that the extraordinary proofs 
which he has recently given of his mercy to 
you will not be forgotten. He has brought 
you to him by severe trials, because they 
were necessary to overcome the obstinacy 
with which you rejected his grace ; but now 
that they are passed, remember them no 
longer but to thank him for his mercy. He 
permitted your friend to die in unrepent- 
ance ; do not forget this either, that you 
may always live in that salutary fear which 
is the beginning and basis of wisdom. You 
are soon to return into the world, and you 
will be exposed anew to its criminal sugges- 
tions ; but the remembrance of the favors 
with which Heaven has loaded you will 
sustain you, and you will share with your 
neighbor the light which God has shed on 
your soul.’ 

I received absolution with the feeling 
of joy which a criminal experiences when, in 
mounting the scaffold, he hears around him 
the cry of pardon ! and sees himself de- 
livered from the chains which bound him. 

‘‘ Father Bernard also wished me to ap- 
proach the Holy Table, but I begged him 
not to insist upon it. Although I was 


140 Augustine ; or, 

confident that I had been restored to the 
grace of God, I did not yet dare to receive 
the Sacrament of his love. And my con- 
fessor, touched by the purity of my inten- 
tions, although my reluctance was the effect 
of a groundless fear, consented that I should 
put off my communion somewhat longer. 

“ After three months’ stay in the desert, 
I at length thought of returning to my 
friends. I took leave of my benefactor, 
being scarcely able to speak a word ; but 
my tears spoke for me. He also appeared 
deeply moved, and, embracing me, he said : 

“ ‘ I will probably never see you again in 
this world ; but on high we will be reunit- 
ed in the bosom of the Deity. Let us pray 
for each other, that the Lord may give us 
grace to deserve this happiness, harewell ! 
never forget the lessons which Heaven has 
given you.’ 

“ These were his last words. Escorted 
by two Indians, I took the road which was 
to conduct me to my comrades in arms, and, 
after several days’ march, I arrived safe and 
sound at their encampment.” 

The details which follow were added 
by the priest to the manuscript of Felix’s, 


The Mysterious Beggar. 141 


the close of which we have just given. We 
continue the recital : 

‘‘ Louis saw his friend again with a joy 
the greater that he thought he had lost 
him. In truth, all those who had escaped, 
like Felix, the first carnage fell some days 
after into ambushes which the Indians had 
prepared for them, and all were massacred. 

Louis soon remarked that something 
extraordinary had taken place in the soul 
of Felix since their separation, and he 
asked him several times the meaning of the 
sorrow which he saw imprinted on his fea- 
tures ; but Felix could not make an avowal 
which his friend was incapable of under- 
standing. He contented himself with an- 
swering : 

‘ Pray that the Lord may open your 
eyes, as he has vouchsafed to open mine, 
and you will see that the happiness which 
we have sought so long was but little 
worthy of our ambition.' 

Tired of war, and still more wearied with 
the impossibility of working for the salva- 
tion of his soul in the midst of a camp, Fe- 
lix wished to return to France ; but Louis 
prayed him so earnestly to remain for some 


142 Augustine ; or, 

time longer with him that he could not re- 
fuse. 

Although he no longer took part in the 
war (his weakness not permitting him to 
expose himself so soon to new fatigues), 
he could not, however, prevent himself 
from defending his friend’s life on one occa- 
sion which Louis never forgot. 

‘‘One day, when they were so imprudent 
as to stray away together from their compan- 
ions, and were walking on the shore of Lake 
Erie, they were all at once assailed by two 
Indians who were hidden behind a rock. 
They defended themselves bravely, and Fe- 
lix had the happiness of saving Louis’s 
life ; but he received a large wound on the 
forehead, and a shot had broken his right 
wrist. 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said he, some days after, ‘ I 
should have lost my two hands, which have 
both served me to commit a crime ; but God 
has been pleased to leave me one to wipe 
away my tears.’ 

“ He was carried to the ambulance, where 
the wound on his head was dressed, and his 
hand amputated. The treatment was 
long, and when Felix was cured, as he 


The Mysterious Beggar. 143 

could no longer serve, he asked his dis- 
charge, and returned to France. 

His farewell to his friend cost him a 
great deal, for he was sincerely attached to 
him. At the moment of their separation, 
Louis once more begged Felix to tell him 
what had occurred during his long absence 
from the camp. 

‘ Louis,’ answered he, ‘you see before 
you a great criminal, who Avill not have suf- 
ficient time during the rest of his life to 
expiate his sin. Pray for me.’ 

“ And after embracing him with all the 
fervor of the most lively friendship, he de- 
parted with tearful eyes and a swelling 
heart. 

“ On his return to France, Felix sold all 
his goods, giving part to the poor, and conse- 
crating the rest to the foundation and sup- 
port of several religious institutions. His 
friends vainly united in opposing his pious 
projects. He resisted all their remon- 
strances, and when they demanded the 
cause of this conduct so strange to them, 
he gave vague answers. Only when he 
spoke to those whose hearts he thought 
capable of understanding, he said that he 













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